


Lunatic

by Macx



Series: Firewall [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Person of Interest (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychic Bond, Series, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two MI6 operatives are killed in New York. Apparently collateral damage. Bond takes a detour on his way home from a case in Mexico to take a deeper look, Q in tow. Not so surprisingly, the deeper look turns up some very interesting connections - and a special CIA unit with a supernatural edge...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who know Person of Interest: this was written before the great multi-parter reveal (season 2, episodes 11, 12, 13). I also take some liberties here because, hey, supernatural elements!
> 
> For those who don’t have a first clue about POI, here’s the very brief intro:
> 
> Person of Interest follows former CIA paramilitary operative, John Reese, who is presumed dead and teams up with reclusive billionaire Finch to prevent violent crimes in New York City by initiating their own type of justice. With the special training that Reese has had in Covert Operations and Finch's genius software inventing mind, the two are a perfect match for the job that they have to complete. With the help of surveillance equipment, the work "outside the law" and get the right criminal behind bars.
> 
> Or to put it into Finch’s words:
> 
>  
> 
> _You are being watched. The government has a secret system, a machine that spies on you every hour of every day. I know because I built it. I designed the Machine to detect acts of terror but it sees everything. Violent crimes involving ordinary people. People like you. Crimes the government considered “irrelevant.” They wouldn’t act so I decided I would. But I needed a partner. Someone with the skills to intervene. Hunted by the authorities, we work in secret. You’ll never find us. But victim or perpetrator, if your number is up, we’ll find you._

The sun was still high in the sky, the dust on the road settling as the dark blue convertible drove toward the next big town down here in the South of the US. It was clearly a tourist car, and the one occupant looked the perfect picture of someone who had spent the long weekend in Mexico enjoying himself. Sunburned, blond-haired, blue eyes that were bright and piercing and just the right side of distinctive and slightly unusual enough for the ladies to swoon over.

Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, a leather jacket completing the outfit, James Bond looked a far cry from his suited self, but he wasn’t a stranger to all kinds of clothing. Whatever the situation required, right down to rags and filth.

It had been a hard two months of undercover work, getting close to a major player of a Mexican cartel and bringing him down. The man, while no better or worse than the average drug boss, had made a few more enemies than others, namely MI6. Bond had been the latest of many agents sent after him and he had been the only one successful in taking out the threat.

He had the wounds to show it.

The graze from a bullet to his thigh had been patched up. There were scrapes on his hands and his right forearm that weren’t bad, just bothersome, and the blow to the back had left a bruise that made sitting a bit more difficult.

But he was alive.

There was nothing else to wrap up in this case since he had taken the kill shot and then disappeared like the ghost he was. Mexican authorities would never know about British involvement in eliminating the man they had been after themselves, and Bond had already been across the border by the time the body had cooled.

He got rid of the rental halfway to San Antonio, leaving it in favor of a less obvious car. The rental company would probably throw a fit, but the name it had been rented under belonged to a known criminal. If the company pursued the perceived theft and abandonment of the car, Bond was completely in the clear. They would get their hands on a forger instead.

Two birds, one stone, he mused.

 

 

It wasn’t unusual for him to enter a hotel room with his gun drawn and pointing it at an intruder.

It was simply unusual that it would be a room he had just checked in at the San Antonio International Airport.

And if Bond had listened to his instincts a bit more closely, if he hadn’t been so tired and looking very much forward to a shower and some sleep before his flight, he might not have pointed his service weapon at his partner.

“Q.”

Brown eyes, hidden behind oversized glasses, met his own calmly and without fear. “007.”

The gun was still pointing at the quartermaster of MI6 and Q raised an eyebrow. He sat cross-legged on the queensize bed, in jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt with another t-shirt on top of that. It looked… casual. Nerdy. Bond could see a gun next to one knee, untouched, and his skilled eye told him that it wasn’t secured. Q could have easily pointed it at him while Bond pushed open the door.

He hadn’t.

“I believe you have to work on your skills, 007.”

Bond lowered the gun. “What are you doing here, Q?”

“Ah, yes, and welcome to the US of A. How was your flight? Terrible, I have to say. Too many bumps and the in-flight program was boring. The landing could have been better and it didn’t help with my perceived fear of flying.”

“Q,” he gritted out.

The quartermaster smiled. “I’m happy to see you too, James. And I’m here with new orders.”

The Double-Oh had by now locked the door, slipped out of his suit jacket and placed the gun – secured – on the desk. He felt gritty and tired, close to exhaustion, and like a long soak would only alleviate the surface of his tiredness.

“M sent you?”

“I thought you would be happier.”

He walked over to his partner and leaned down, kissing that smart mouth, feeling tension drain from his body when the technopath slid a hand up his arm.

The phoenix reacted immediately to the presence of its balance, the stability Q provided without ever doing more than just touching Bond. He felt it lodge deep within his soul, permeate every cell of his body, blanket him in a safety net that had him wanting to curl up with his partner and do nothing but touch him.

Q was warmth and safety and reassurance.

“I am,” Bond murmured, briefly resting his forehead against Q’s.

He had missed this. He was able to function perfectly without Q, of course. It would be impossible for James Bond to be an MI6 agent if he couldn’t be away from the man linked to him. But it helped settle him immensely, almost immediately, to have Q there.

Q smiled. “Shower, bathe, whatever. Then I’ll give you the briefing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Nimble fingers were already undoing his tie and James buried his face in the messy strands of longish, dark hair. He inhaled the clean scent, the very Q scent, and the phoenix rumbled softly.

“Focus,” Q murmured, pulling the tie off.

“I am.”

Buttons were undone and the shirt was suddenly open, Q’s fingers unerringly finding the bruises and scrapes.

Pale blue eyes watched him, sharp and focused and so very much aware of what was going on in that agile brain.

“How bad?”

“Manageable,” was the curt answer.

“Which translates into damn painful for us mere mortals?”

Bond chuckled and leaned down to kiss his bonded partner. “It means no broken bones, no bullet or shrapnel in my body, and no need for a doctor, Q.”

Q’s expression was neutral, searching his face for lies and finding none. Bond kept caressing the narrow, pale face, his tanned skin in stark contrast, and he felt a shiver race down his core.

Damn.

“Good,” was Q’s verdict. “Now shower.”

Bond was given a little push and he raised a suggestive eyebrow.

Q scowled at him. “Shower,” he repeated. “Alone.”

“You take all the fun out of it.”

It got him a little, quirky smile. “We can see about fun later.”

So he went.

The shower was hot and relaxing, washing away grime and dust and blood. It sluiced off him, swirling away down the drain, and he cleaned the wounds thoroughly, despite the burn.

The phoenix was a dark, even presence inside him, totally at peace with the presence of its partner, and Bond felt it so strongly because he had lost all of the previous tension. Q relaxed the primal beast. It was one of the reasons why he went down to Q branch, stayed there, on his couch, around Q, watched and worked while his partner did the same.

Q never minded. And his underlings had grown used to it as well.

Right now it meant the exhaustion had easy play, but he didn’t mind. He let the hot water beat on his tired muscles, enjoying the pliable state of his mind, though he never lost that one edge. He was able to snap back into fight-or-flight mode at the drop of a hat.

When he walked back into the room, Q had made some space for him on the bed, though he had yet to get rid of the laptop, and his quick smile and appreciative look told Bond that he approved of the clean version of the phoenix. With only a towel around his hips, James Bond left little to the imagination of the genius-level mind.

And it wasn’t like Q saw him for the very first time today.

He didn’t mind the look. Actually, it had him preen a little.

Damn.

Neither did Bond mind that the moment he hit the mattress there was nothing but sliding together and exchanging soft touches. Q had pushed the laptop onto the side table and slender fingers ran over his tired form, found the cleaned wounds, the scars from weeks before, and he pulled James close.

He went.

It was what he wanted. This closeness, this intimacy. This. No demands, just a low-level hunger for nothing more than just this.

Slender fingers scratched lightly over his scalp. Q was a warm weight against him, on him, around him.

Bond simply surrendered to his body’s needs, let the slender body he was curled up to and the familiar heart-beat lull him into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Bond sat with his back against the headboard, stark naked, not a care in the world how he looked – and Q didn’t mind at all. He liked the picture, even though he wouldn’t give in to temptation. That had been the wake-up call, which had been hot and heavy and very intense. Blue eyes, pale and filled with the fire of that intense encounter, followed the quartermaster’s every move as Q got his laptop and activated it.

The terrifying bird of prey that lurked in Bond’s soul was watching him. Not as prey. As its partner, its mate, its bonded, and Q had not a single self-conscious bone in him. He liked it, enjoyed it, and he very much liked the reminder from just half an hour ago.

But now it was time to be professionals.

“We lost 0012 two days ago,” he opened.

The intense look was replaced by cold distance. Like a switch had been flipped. Tension lined that muscular form, seeped into every move, every twitch, and Q knew it had been a cheap, though effective mood killer.

At least for now.

Bond wasn’t a man easily deterred from a goal even by the most life-threatening or gruesome circumstances. Q was very well aware of his partner’s background, of his past, and he didn’t care or mind. He had accepted it all the moment he had become more than just a handler.

“He was in New York, working a joint task force with the CIA. His handler and a CIA agent were also found dead. The CIA agent was a werewolf.”

Pale eyebrows rose in surprise. The CIA was known for employing the supernatural. They thought it gave them an edge.

MI6 begged to differ.

“We’ll be meeting with an old friend of yours in New York this afternoon. Felix Leiter. The CIA is launching their own investigation into the death of their man, but they will cooperate with us in finding the killer. M told me that Leiter has additional information, though he won’t be involved directly in this. He will be the liaison.”

Bond nodded.

“Our flight leaves in three hours. It gives you time to catch up on 0012’s mission. I’m not sure whether it relates to his death or not, but you should still know the details.”

Another nod. Bond’s expression was stony. Of course he had known 0012. All Double-Ohs knew each other and the two men had worked a mission before.

Q picked up his laptop and handed it to James. The mission file was on there.

His agent was in his professional mode, despite his very unprofessional dress code – or lack of clothes in that regard.

 

 

He was done with the file in fifteen minutes.

 

 

They left the hotel half an hour later.

 

 

Bond didn’t talk about it, just watched the road, the buildings passing by the windows as the cab took them to the airport.

 

* * *

 

Their flight had been on time. Q had gone through his normal pre-flight unease and had been tense and monosyllabic until they were in the air.

Aviophobia was one thing; he didn’t have that. But he knew too many facts and his brain was too good at storing them. And then there was the matter of feeling the plane’s network all around him, hearing the echoes of its communications coming in and going out.

Bond had simply been there. He hadn’t talked, he hadn’t tried to soothe his nerves, he hadn’t held his hand. Him being there had been enough. The phoenix had been that dark, calming presence wrapped around him without physical contact.

“You don’t have to watch me the whole time!” Q grumbled.

It got him a smile. “Nothing wrong with the sight I’m looking at.”

Q shot him an aggravated look. “Next you drop a line about the Mile High Club.”

“Now that you mention it…”

“In your dreams.”

“I can dream up a lot of very nice scenarios, Q.”

“You would.”

 

*

 

Thankfully the flight had been short and without notable incidents. The inflight meal had been a dry sandwich, which Q had declined.

New York was a change from the dry climate of the south. It was cold, wet and snow drifted through the frigid air. The snow wasn’t staying, just making everything seem even more wet than it already was, the sky slate gray and promising more precipitation.

Q buttoned up his thick coat and followed Bond outside.

A limo delivered them right to their hotel. The drive was spent silently, looking out the window and watching the city come closer and closer. He had never been to New York, be it pleasure or business, and it hadn’t been on any of his lists where he would like to go at least once in his life.

Well, here he was.

Q had known where MI6 had booked a room – he had actually been the one to handle the reservations personally – but he was still impressed by the splendor and luxury.

Not Bond.

The man walked through the posh entrance hall as if he owned it. Q trailed after him, secretly amused by the act. He watched as his agent charmed the receptionist, a young, blonde woman with a nice smile and even nicer eyes. She didn’t blush, but she flirted back.

“You are incorrigible,” Q muttered when they walked to the elevator where the bellhop was already waiting for them with the cart.

Bond shot him that little half-smile that only crinkled the corners of his mouth. “But fun.”

“Only you would break her heart and see it as fun.”

“Her heart is intact.”

“You would know.”

Bond shot him a grin.

Q just about refrained from rolling his eyes.

 

*

 

Their room was actually a suite and overlooked Central Park. Snow drifted merrily past the huge window panes, but the forecast promised dryer weather this week.

Not that it mattered. Whatever the forecast, the mission would run, be it sunshine or pouring rain. And Q would spent most of it holed up in this suite and in front of his computer screen.

There was a separate conference room, a fully functional kitchen which no one expected you to cook in, two bedrooms, a bathroom that was bigger than the apartments some people lived in, and a fireplace.

Q went into the conference room, set up his laptop and connected it to the computer system inlaid into the table. He checked the set-up, then hacked into it and worked his own magic. It didn’t take him more than five minutes of technopathic prodding and some light hacking and he was a) in and b) had implemented a few safety measures. The hotel would be unable to keep track of what they were doing.

“Incorrigible, Q,” Bond murmured into his ear and placed a light kiss against one temple.

Q smiled and leaned back. “But fun.”

 

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

The knock on the door came half an hour later and Bond had his gun out as he checked the door. There was a camera over the suite’s entrance and it showed them their visitor.

Bond opened the door.

The visitor smiled widely. “Hey, there, James. Long time no see. Welcome to New York.”

“Felix.”

About five eleven, broad shoulders, receding hairline and dressed in a dark suit, the man looked like he had just come out of his office. Q guessed Leiter was about Bond’s age, maybe even a bit older.

“It’s been what? Two years? Eternity. Heard you were dead.”

“Only for about three months,” James deadpanned.

“Death became you. Hope you enjoyed it, too.”

Bond smiled a little more. “Actually, no.”

“Figures. You’re not the type.”

Q remained where he was, standing between the conference room and the entrance hall of the suite, face expressionless, stance loose. His agent knew the man and he knew who they were expecting, but it always paid off to be careful. He listened to the light banter, noticed his partner’s ease, and he knew he trusted the newcomer.

Of course he did.

He had known this man for years, had worked with him, and he probably trusted him.

Dark eyes met his and Felix gave him a once-over.

“Who’s your partner, James?”

“Felix, meet Q, quartermaster of MI6. Q, my old CIA friend Felix Leiter.”

“You’re Q? Damn, they recruit young.”

“You have no idea,” Q replied wryly.

“Didn’t think you’d be out in the field.”

“Neither did I, but here I am. Shall we get going?”

Leiter grinned and shot Bond a quick look. “I like him.”

Q gave him a bland look, refusing to react to the teasing. They settled down around the conference table and he typed a few commands into his laptop. The beamer cast images against the wall.

“Right, business,” Felix agreed. “I know you were brought in on this because one of yours was killed.”

“0012,” Q supplied. “As well as his handler.”

Leiter nodded. “They were the last victims and we believe collateral damage when the killer came after Leonard Thomas.”

“Collateral damage,” Bond echoed sourly.

Leiter looked pained. “Yes, sadly. Thomas was on a joint mission with 0012.”

Bond studied the images on the wall. “He was a werewolf.”

Another nod. “We’ve lost six agents in the past three months. All werewolves. All of the same pack.”

Blond eyebrows rose. “All?”

“Yeah.”

Q called up the six images, names underneath all. His expression stayed neutral. Losing almost a whole pack was unusual.

“We didn’t make the connection at first. It took three kills to get us on the right track.”

Q looked at the screen. “Only three more left.”

For one used by the Agency, it had been a large pack. Packs varied in size, but usually six or seven are the maximum occupancy, so to speak. Any more and the alpha might have a problem. Werewolves were territorial supernaturals. They chose a city or an area and stayed there.

Agents had to be able to move around and not get caught up in separation anxiety. Well, the werewolf kind of separation anxiety.

To use a pack as CIA agents, the alpha had to be very strong to stay on top since he never had all of his pack together. Three or four might run a mission, but all of them together? Not likely.

Another downside to wolfpack operatives.

Leiter nodded. “Mark Snow. The pack’s alpha. Tyrell Evans, who took over as his second when Kara Stanton was killed two years ago in the line of duty. And John Reese. He’s MIA and the CIA has been looking for him for a while now. They say he’s alive. He might no longer be part of the pack, but he might be a target.”

Q studied the picture of the dead second. She was a woman in her thirties. At least she looked like it. Long, dark hair, wavy, dark eyes, slender. There was a hard expression to her eyes. She was clearly used to command and to be on top. To lose a strong beta like her must have hit the pack hard. The alpha needed someone to handle the pack while he wasn’t there and the handler had to be respected.

Stanton had been all that and Snow had lost her.

Bond studied the images. “You think one of them might be involved?”

“Or the next kill. Honestly, Bond, I doubt a werewolf would kill one of his own pack, least of all the alpha would. Snow has been trying to find the killer the moment it became clear who they were targeting. It didn’t stop the kills. ”

“You have him in protective custody?”

Leiter snorted. “Have you ever met a werewolf? An alpha? Let alone worked with one?”

Q raised an elaborate eyebrow. “There’s a reason why MI6 doesn’t use them as agents.”

“Yeah, well, we do and the packs are successful.” It sounded almost defensive.

“Unless something like this happens.”

Leiter’s jaw clenched a little. “Yes. I’m very well aware of the limitations of a werewolf agent, let alone a whole team, but we made it work.”

“And look where it got you,” Q muttered without stopping his computer work.

Bond shot him an amused glance. If Leiter had heard him, he chose to ignore the remark.

“The problem is that as an alpha, Snow takes this very personally,” the CIA agent continued, “and he won’t back down. He built the pack, he hand-chose them all. He lost them all, one by one, in a manner that suggested the killer knew what they were.”

Werewolves were very enduring, healed fast, could take a lot more punishment than a human, and they could partially shape-shift – a rare few fully -- which made them supernatural. They were the most common supernaturals and numerous, and there were a lot of shifters all over the world. The wolf was dominant among them.

Due to their animalistic tendencies and the pack mentality MI6 didn’t employ them as field agents. Lone wolves tended to be unpredictable and didn’t react well to handlers. Packs weren’t a viable form of agents for MI6. The CIA had had a different take to it.

Bond tilted his head a little. “Hunter?”

While there was a general acceptance of the supernatural and preternatural, there were those who hated the shapeshifters. It was a prejudice like any other. They liked to call themselves werewolf hunters, but there were few and those fanatical enough who tried to actually shoot the wolves were far and few between. Mostly they simply talked trash.

A werewolf was born as a wolf. If someone was bitten, it didn’t mean a turn. It was rare and it had to be an alpha of age. And even then it might just be a bite infection, some fever, and nothing else.

Full moon didn’t necessitate a change, but it made the wolf more moody when he didn’t. The day before and after they were a bit more temperamental. Q knew that his own abilities were a lot more of a problem to him than being a werewolf was.

“Hunters choose lone wolves. This one singled out a pack and systematically decimated it. Each agent was unable to recover from their wounds. And no hunter in his right mind would go after trained operatives.”

“Highly unusual indeed,” Q agreed. “And bothersome to think that those operatives didn’t see it coming or defended themselves in any way.”

There had been no defensive wounds at all. All of them had been surprised, which meant someone they had known, had trusted, had been the killer. He also would have to know about the wolves’ pack affiliations, about each member of the Snow pack, where to find them.

The whole scenario might work with a family pack, but not an Agency one. Their locations, while on a mission, were only known to the alpha and the handler of the pack. Their names were under lock and key. No one could identify pack affiliation by just looking at a werewolf. It wasn't like they were wearing badges.

Very strange.

“You’ll find the files on their deaths here.” He tossed a USB stick at Q, who caught it easily. “Snow is currently in New York, as is Evans. We have agents there, with them and around them, but wolves are picky and we couldn’t use another pack to protect them.”

Bond nodded. Another downside to packs. One as threatened and weak as Snow’s wouldn’t accept protection from another, even within their own agency.

Snow would rather die than submit to another alpha.

Q was already typing on his laptop and accessing the data on the stick.

“Let me know if you need anything, Bond.”

“I will, Felix.”

“Nice meeting you, Q.”

Leiter left with a brief nod at Q, who was already deep within the data.

“Hm,” he muttered.

Bond leaned over his partner’s shoulder.

“I think I’ll need to pay the CIA server a little visit,” the quartermaster only said. “No offence to Mr. Leiter, but what he gave us is less than superficial.”

“Hacking the CIA, Q?” Bond teased.

Brown eyes sparked with humor. “I need something to do while you run around and do whatever you do next.”

He caressed the long neck and placed a kiss on Q’s temple. “Don’t get caught.”

The offended expression was almost comical. Bond kissed him again, this time on his lips.

And then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

He had walked the streets of New York all day, following 0012’s trail. The weather had truly let up, though it was freezing cold and the sun didn’t even peek. People were hurrying to or from their appointments around him. Tourists flocked among them, their cameras shooting pictures of everything. Tour busses roamed the streets, and yellow cabs were everywhere.

Bond had been to where his colleague had, had talked to the same people, had tried to find a connection between the mission and the cause of his death. 0012 and his handler had had a rather simple operation going: find a forger who had apparently set up camp in New York and who had appeared on the CIA’s radar just recently. He had been involved with some unsavory characters of Russian nationality, delivering perfectly forged passports and official documents, and making a name of himself as someone who could deliver whatever anyone ordered.

The more Bond investigated, the more he was convinced that Leiter had been correct: 0012 had been collateral damage. The target had been the supernatural at his side. The forger had been arrested, the Russians had cut all ties with him, and nothing about this case pointed at them killing three agents, two of them British, just because of their investigation.

“For once the CIA was right,” Q commented in his ear. “How fascinating.”

“I would be more fascinated if you could tell me who my mark is, Q.”

It got him a slight chuckle. “Bring dinner.”

Bond did. Take-out from across the street, because neither was cooking and the hotel, while offering an excellent room service, didn’t really have to get a glimpse of the command center Q had set up in the conference room. Bond had talked to reception, had asked to lay off maid service unless called. They were used to a lot more outrageous requests and the receptionist didn’t even bat an eye.

Q was deep within his hacking and Bond simply held the plate with the food out to him. Q took it with an almost absent-minded nod.

“Intriguing,” he commented, looking at the screen.

Bond settled on the bed, fries and burger on a plate on his lap.

“I know your name, the name you were born under, is James Bond,” Q continued.

That got him a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

The quartermaster shot him a slightly annoyed look. “Yes.”

“Then it is so.”

“Anyway. MI6 rarely renames its agents.”

Bond was silently waiting, eating fries.

“Well, aside from assigning cover names to use while on missions.”

“Like… Q?” Bond teased.

The quartermaster shrugged with one shoulder. “Agent Leiter gave me a very watered-down version of the actual CIA files of the pack. The file contained all we needed to know for a simple mission, but digging deeper I found discrepancies between what we were given and what the CIA knows about the pack, especially about the alpha, his former second-in-command, and a recruited pack member who seems to be a bit different to your average werewolf.”

Bond ate the last of his burger and wiped his hands, still attentive.

“I don’t think that Mr. Snow, Ms Stanton or Mr. Reese are truly who they appear to be on paper,” Q explained. “Kara Stanton is dead, so I concentrated on the other two. The alpha is almost straight-forward, though with deep cover names and a list of missions that rival yours, 007. Calling it Black Ops is still a shade too light; they’ve done some very unsavory things, even by CIA standards.”

Cold blue eyes studied the mission briefings Q called up on the screen. Bond would be familiar with it, but even he hadn’t been running deep on his home turf, treating his own country as a hostile. Whoever had handled the pack, they had been operating outside the government, that was for sure.

“The pack was doing a lot of things no one will ever even whisper about. I’ve been following Reese’s life up until he disappeared from military employment and into CIA handling, and he wasn’t John Reese back then. He wasn’t Reese when he joined the CIA. His whole life was erased, put under lock and key…”

“Which you still found.”

Q glanced at him with a small smile. “Of course I did.”

“Of course.” Bond smirked knowingly.

“He has no marker for a supernatural heritage. All pack members are labeled as werewolves in their respective files, except for Reese.”

The Double-Oh frowned. “Unusual,” he agreed.

“Very.”

“Then again…” Bond shot him a pointed look.

“Well, yes,” Q agreed.

Their own files. Bond’s preternatural nature wasn’t on any computer file. Only M and Tanner knew what he was, and two doctors down in Medical. But nowhere in any mission report or data file on any server did it say that James Bond, 007, was a phoenix. Q had also made sure that he wasn’t labeled as a technopath either.

“I doubt the CIA would just ignore what he is, Bond,” the quartermaster argued. “He was part of a whole pack, not a single agent. He was recruited from the military. He ran missions.”

“Then what is he?”

“Still digging. He looks suspiciously… smooth. The file reads too normal for my taste.”

Bond looked at it, silent, apparently thinking.

“The CIA is actually looking to find their wayward agent. He seems to be pretty active here in New York, if you can believe these reports. Don’t get me started on the FBI files on him. They sound almost ludicrous.”

Q clicked on Snow’s name.

“Stanton was Reese’s handler for a while and Snow’s second. I think she brought him into the pack, though if he isn’t a werewolf I’m wondering how he got into the pack dynamics.”

“If he isn’t a werewolf, he isn’t pack. Pack means loyalty and trust.”

Bond had met werewolves before, yes. He remembered one pack Down Under. They had been a close-knit unit and there had been a connection; it had been clear to see.

“To trust Reese he had to be something to them. The CIA wouldn’t have made it work otherwise.”

Q leaned back. “I’m not an expert on pack mentality, but to bring in another kind of supernatural, and I believe he has to be in order to function in a wolf pack, is risky. They would never accept a human as part of their team. Advisors, yes. Temps, maybe. But running undercover? Not a chance. It’s a trust issue and werewolves have a lot of them. Even if the alpha brought in the outsider, the pack members wouldn’t trust him as they would another werewolf.”

He clicked an icon and a picture appeared. An older woman with longer, light brown hair.

“Alicia M. Corwin, forty-one. Not a werewolf, not any kind of supernatural or preternatural. She handled Snow’s pack. She was the deputy Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs.”

“And she’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Bond frowned. “Related to the pack’s deaths?”

“Her files says she took her own life.”

The frown stayed. Bond, like Q, knew that a suicide was easily faked.

“When did she die?”

“Six months ago. She had resigned and had dropped off the radar for a long time. Her death might be related or just coincidence.”

“That leaves us with two possible killers from the pack or an outsider.”

“If we believe Felix and the alpha isn’t the one, and it we leave Evans to Felix’s own investigations, our main interest is in Reese. Who isn’t a werewolf.”

“He might be a kind of supernatural closely related to werewolves.”

Bond shot him an inquisitive look. Q shrugged again.

“No expert,” he repeated.

“So he might be the killer?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he is in New York.”

“If you believe everything I could find.”

Bond straightened. “Then I believe I’ll go looking for him.”

Q nodded. “I’ll start my own hunt. If he really is here, he is leaving a trail.”

James put away the remnants of the food, then walked over to Q and pulled him into an affectionate kiss. “Be careful.”

“I always am. Try not to shoot too many people, 007,” he added mischievously.

“I always do.”

And Bond left again.

 

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

Looking for John Reese had Q dig in deep. Not just into CIA files, but also into data banks that weren’t commonly known. He was fascinated by what he found and it had him hunt for more with each report he unearthed from the NYPD, the FBI, the military or the CIA.

The CIA had declared Reese missing. He had been a Special Forces officer for nine years and before he had disappeared he had worked for the CIA for four years.

Q had followed a quite interesting lead to a place called Ordos in China. It was where Kara Stanton had been reported killed and where Reese had been suspected of dying as well. But he hadn’t. Somehow he had survived.

Ordos tickled more interest. So he unearthed that information. It was a city in China where Stanton and Reese had been sent to retrieve a laptop that contained a high profile computer virus, stolen from the Pentagon. Ordos had been quarantined by the Chinese government because of a bird flu outbreak. It had, of course, been a cover. Q found nothing after the mention of Ordos, but since Stanton hadn’t survived, something massive must have occurred.

Corwin had been involved in that mission. She had given Snow the orders and he had chosen his second and Reese.

Kara had been the pack’s second-in-command, which meant she was powerful, though not an alpha. Werewolves were hard to get rid of on a good day and she wouldn’t have just walked into a trap.

Unless someone she had trusted had been the one to take her out.

Someone like John Reese.

She might have been the first victim.

Reese had been believed dead, but he had resurfaced in New York and had piqued the interest of the NYPD, specifically Detective Joss Carter. She had called him ‘The Man in the Suit’ and she had started a man hunt for him. So far without much success.

‘The Man in the Suit’ had become an interloper in the last two years. He had been in the strangest places, leaving knee-capped people in his wake. Not all of them good guys. Well, most of them had been involved in shady business and to Q it looked like Reese was a strange kind of Robin Hood figure.

He had no idea how the man picked his victims or the people he helped. Neither had the NYPD.

The FBI had become involved now, too. Their theories were a bit wacky, but they were after him and Special Agent Donnelly was a relentless hunter. Q looked him up, but there wasn’t a supernatural trace about him. He was simply dedicated.

Q ignored the FBI files and started his own virtual map of sightings. It should have been a long and tedious work, but not really for a technopath. Using his abilities he created the map in less than an hour.

Yes, he was that good. Q smiled with a little pride at his work.

He tapped a command and the line to Bond opened.

“007?”

“Here.”

“I’m sending you a rough map of where Reese has been sighted in the past six months. I see quite a file from a Detective Joss Carter. She has apparently been on his trail for a while, always close, never catching him. You might want to start with her.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll keep on looking and let you know if I come up with more leads.”

Bond acknowledged. Q turned back to his work.

 

* * *

 

In an abandoned building at the corner of Madison Ave and East 37th St. that had once been a library and now didn’t exist on any records, Harold Finch looked at one of his many computer screens, a mild frown on his features. He typed a few commands and the resulting answer didn’t lift the frown; it actually deepened it.

“This is a problem,” he murmured.

There was no other person around to hear him, though a pair of ears pricked and a canine rumble had him glance under the table.

“It seems we have an interested party, Bear.”

The Belgian Malinois looked expectantly at him.

“Well, so am I,” Finch added and turned to his computer. “Let’s see who you are.”

 

* * *

 

Q was surprised when he was suddenly denied access to a file. He tilted his head, looking almost comically offended, then tried again.

Again denied.

He changed tactics and so did whoever was standing in his way.

His fingers flew over the keyboard and whatever he did, he was always pushed back. Not by a computer or a watchdog program or even what might be called an artificial intelligence. It had to be another hacker/computer expert.

Ah, a challenge.

He smiled.

“Let’s see who you are and why you are keeping guard over Mr. Reese.”

He slid into the HUD and cracked his technopathic knuckles.

Better than any training exercise.

 

* * *

 

Bond had gone to the precinct where Carter worked and he had introduced himself as what he was: an agent of MI6, investigating the death of two colleagues together with the CIA. Carter had, of course, called the CIA and with it Leiter, getting confirmation of the claims, then had answered his questions about ‘The Man in the Suit’, John Reese.

Not that the answers had been satisfactory, but the brief time they had talked had told Bond something: Carter knew more about Reese than she let on; she was lying when she claimed she hadn’t seen him or investigated his appearances in a while.

Well, so be it.

He hadn’t expected to find a good lead. The visit had been to plant one of Q’s little toys. It was a bug that would patch Q right into Carter’s cellphone and keep an ear on her calls.

“She’s already calling,” Q could be heard.

“That was quick,” he answered.

“Hello, Detective,” a pleasant, low voice could be heard. It was dark and smooth and Bond smiled knowingly. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more what I can do for you, John,” Carter replied. “I’ve had a visitor here, asking about you.”

So she didn’t just look for John Reese. She had found him. And she worked with him.

Interesting.

Q echoed the sentiment. “I believe Detective Carter has become a new person of interest,” he remarked.

 

* * *

 

Q had never had a problem with being cooped up in a single room, with only a TV, his laptop and a smartphone. He could do more damage with those devices than a whole army could with guns and canons. He hadn’t lied to Bond back when they had met at the National Gallery, that fateful first meeting when his life had become entwined with and finally bonded to that of James Bond, 007. Now his partner.

The suite was even better equipped than some hotel rooms and he had cannibalized their network to make a lot of things happen. Like enabling him to log into the street camera network of New York City, access police files and track his partner seamlessly. He had even managed to get into the audio network, the one that could have him drop in on spoken conversation around the city. There were microphones in some places, there were cell phone mics and whole phone conversations he could hack into, and for a technopath it was an easy walk into those data files.

Yes, it was fun.

Q had done his own version of The Hunt for Red October, pinging around the cyberworld and trying to find the other hacker who guarded Reese’s CIA files and counteracted all of Q’s moves whenever he tried to get closer to the elusive target.

It wasn’t easy and he was getting a lot of fake data, mirror sites that were there to deter anyone stupid enough to try and find the mystery man, and once he even ended up halfway around the world.

“You’re good,” he murmured.

But not a technopath.

And he was getting closer. The defenses were growing more and more vicious, biting at Q’s mind, and in turn he grew more tenacious.

Dog with a bone.

And then he was right at the source. From within the HUD, Q could see the central core of the hacker’s domain, his heart and soul, and it was heavily armed and even more heavily defended. Whoever this man was, he was damn good and he rivaled Q in his skills.

Well, he thought. Time to put my abilities to the test.

If he wanted to know who was behind all this he would have to make a very quick data grabbing dash. Go in, take what he could, slide out again, without getting caught.

And without knocking himself out in the process.

That would be the hardest part, Q knew. He had never tried to slide into an actively defended zone, one where the creator was just waiting for such an intruder, one where he had no idea about the code underneath all the shielding. Yes, government servers were protected as well, and they had the best software, but Q walked around those in his sleep. They were known. They were structured.

This was chaos.

New code. Dangerous code.

He steeled himself.

“Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

Finch was blindsided by the sudden attack on his systems, moving so fast, it was inhuman. Beyond anything a machine could do: Lightning fast, furious, in a split second, leaving no damage. Like a sweep. No data corrupted, none copied, just a peek and then… nothing.

Intriguing.

And worth looking into.

An uneasy feeling registered in the back of his mind. There had been such an incident before, but back then it had been different. This felt different, but who was to say it wasn’t related? This hadn’t been a normal hack. It hadn’t been someone painstakingly singling him out and taking their time to sneak inside. This had been hard and fast and inhuman.

And nothing had been compromised.

Finch pushed away the unease and sent out a few hunter programs.

Whoever had been the originator, they would have left traces. Traces Finch could find.

 

* * *

 

“Someone is trying to hack the machine?”

Finch looked at the tall, silent shadow known as John Reese. Softly spoken, the words still carried a threat, a promise of violence, that had him shiver a little. Especially considering the expression in those dark blue eyes; eyes that seemed to hold a ring of silver.

He wasn’t afraid of his partner. John Reese was a very deadly man, a trained killer, a weapon to be used by its handler, but there was also something else in that cold, dark core.

Reese was damaged goods; like Finch.

He had fought tooth and nail to survive against odds that would have killed others; like Finch.

He was a survivor; like Finch.

Despite their obvious difference, starting with the physical, they were very much alike. Reese had given Finch’s quest meaning; he was a weapon and he was a meaning to an end, yes, but he wasn’t a soulless, mindless tool to be discarded after use. Reese was loyal and protective and fiercely powerful.

Finch had witnessed it often enough.

And it somehow made him proud to be this man’s handler and friend. Reese protected him; not because Finch paid him handsomely. They were way past that stage.

And Finch protected Reese against whoever caught wind of him and tried to find him.

“Someone is trying to find you, Mr. Reese,” he said and turned stiffly back to his screen. “Someone is looking deeply into your files, hunting for clues.”

“CIA?”

“No. The files that were hacked were your CIA files. Curiously there was also further interest in your former team. Snow’s pack. Nothing else.”

Reese frowned, eyes growing colder, though there was a tell-tale glow in their depths.

Finch knew John wasn’t human, though he had never asked him directly. He knew the CIA file inside out, knew he had been part of a pack, but he wasn’t a werewolf. He also knew his military records and there had been hints. Preternaturals weren’t obligated to state what they were, what they might be capable of, but supernaturals usually had an entry in their records. The military would have been very interested in a werewolf as a Special Forces operative.

Finch had a few suspicions and the hints John had dropped were tell-tale, but they had never openly talked about it. It seemed like John was simply waiting for the right time and Finch was waiting for him to be comfortable enough with him to talk about it.

Maybe that time was coming.

“It seems whoever is trying to get to know you is also here in New York and following your career as ‘The Man in the Suit’.”

Reese twitched a smile, then was serious again. His brows lowered as a thought struck.

“Could it be Root?”

Finch shuddered at the memory of the hacker-for-hire/assassin. “No.”

“Are you sure, Harold?”

And when had Reese moved so close without him noticing? The fierce protectiveness was there, almost palpable, intense and unwavering. After Finch’s abduction by Root, his near-death by her hands, Reese had been hovering closer and closer. On one side it had instilled a sense of utter security in Finch, on the other he had known that if he let it grow a life of its own, Reese wouldn’t be able to function normally any more.

New cases had been a welcome distraction. One of those had given them Bear, who now was a means of protection and companionship for Harold.

“I’m very sure,” he now told Reese.

There was a barely-there touch, a brush of gentle fingers over his suit jacket, then Reese was pacing around the computer station, clearly not happy about the developments.

“Then who?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Reese, but I will find out.”

John’s phone rang and he picked up, switching on the loudspeaker. “Hello, Detective,” he said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more what I can do for you, John,” Carter replied. “I’ve had a visitor here, asking about you.”

Finch tensed, looking even more worried now.

“Who?”

“MI6. British government. He said his name is James Bond. Reminded me a lot of you,” she said, voice holding a light sarcastic note. “He’s investigating the death of two MI6 agents.”

“I remember.”

She huffed. Carter had been booted from that investigation when the CIA had taken over, since one of their own had been killed. A werewolf. His number hadn’t come up and Reese and Finch hadn’t involved themselves. That the man had been of John’s old unit, part of the Snow pack, had been of little interest. He had long since left that behind.

“Looks like they are looking into you, John.”

“Killing MI6 agents?” Reese sounded amused. “Why would I be involved?”

“He didn’t say, but he wasn’t saying a lot anyway. Just letting you know.”

“Thank you, Carter. I appreciate it.”

She was silent for a second, then, “Were you involved?”

John smiled widely. Then he cut the connection.

Finch looked at him. “We have someone snooping into your files and a MI6 agent questioning Detective Carter. I find that… disturbing.”

“Can you find the hacker?”

“Probably. But he is good.”

Reese smiled. “You are better.”

“Flattery doesn’t get you anywhere, Mr. Reese.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” He turned to go.

“And where are you going?” Finch called after him.

“Legwork, Harold.”

And he was gone.

 

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

He knew it might come to this. He knew he shouldn’t have made such an uncoordinated move.

And hindsight was always 20/20.

Every step was an effort. The pain behind his eyes was merciless, blinding, and the light was like agonizing little stabs right into his brain. Q walked unsteadily over to the bed. Carefully he lowered himself down, moving like an old man. He felt old. Everything hurt. His brain was ready to explode. His head felt like it would just split at the seams and let that happen.

Sinking back, he moaned silently at the on-going noise in his brain. He wanted to just tune it all out, make it disappear.

Every thought hurt.

Every little notion of grasping reality had him wince and wish for relief.

So he stopped thinking, blanked his mind, wanting nothing more than the darkness of sleep.

 

 

It was hours later. Maybe even days. Maybe it was after an eternity.

Q had no idea.

The bed dipped and he felt someone close by, but the headache made it hard to even get the panic going. Panic that he might have been found, that someone had entered his room.

There was a familiar sensation, one that was trying to pierce through the pain, and he instinctively leaned into the touch to his temple.

The pain lessened.

It lifted like a veil and he blinked, focusing on the darkness, the cool, even blanket that enveloped him. Blue eyes like ice regarded him.

Gentle.

Soft.

Warm.

He leaned into the sensation that wasn’t simply physical. It was everywhere, inside him, around him; it was part of him.

A calloused thumb caressed his temple and he sighed unconsciously, smiling a little.

Bond mirrored the smile.

He then rose and stripped off his jacket and toed off his shoes. Q mourned the loss of contact only for a moment, because James was there again, fully on the bed and spooning up behind, holding Q close. He pushed his face against Q’s neck and the soft kiss had the technopath shiver. A hand curled over his belly, a warm weight that was an easy focus for him.

The pain was gone, replaced by a sudden mellowness. A feeling like Q could just let himself fall.

He did just that.

It was the most heady sensation; and he was completely safe.

The hand over his stomach slid underneath his t-shirt, caressing the warm skin, and he sighed in contentment.

“How bad?” Bond murmured, voice barely more than a rumble.

“Gone now.”

“Good.”

His caresses never stopped and he nuzzled Q’s neck. Q felt warm. He felt complete. The pain was no more and there was no urgency left. He could just let himself be, trust in Bond to protect him while he was at his most vulnerable.

“Got anything out of it?” Bond asked, voice low. “Aside from a headache?”

“Only that whoever is protecting Reese, working with him, probably handling him, is very, very good.”

Q interlaced their fingers, letting them rest on his stomach. Bond’s breath was warm against his neck.

“But there is more. I made a grab and run. I just have to sort through it.”

He barely suppressed a yawn and James curled up closer behind him.

“Get some rest first,” he murmured.

“Definitely.”

Because his body was already shutting down, demanding rest, and Q wasn’t foolish enough to try and fight it. His eyes slid shut and the last sensation was of Bond pulling the comforter over them.

Then he was out like a light.

 

* * *

 

Bond sat in one of the many New York coffee shops, sipping at an exceptionally strong and very good coffee that had cost more than a pot of regular coffee anywhere else.

He was watching the streets.

He had followed Detective Carter all day, more in the open and a lot more visible than usual.

Bond had made himself a target.

And he was waiting for the curious hunter who he knew would be lurking around, watching him.

“Q?” he asked softly, masking his lip movement behind his mug.

“Still tracking, but no luck so far. It seems like Mr. Reese knows how to stay invisible. He seems to be as talented as you are in that regard.”

He smiled. “Let’s wait some more then.”

“Maybe I should lead him to you?” Q offered with a slightly teasing note.

“It would be very much appreciated.”

“Not enjoying your coffee?”

Bond felt amusement rise. Of course his partner would know where he was and what he was doing.

“Watching, Q?”

“Always, 007.”

Bond glanced at the street surveillance camera, the one the city had installed to prevent crime or, if a crime happened, have a way of finding the perp. There was also the coffee shop’s security camera and probably a dozen more devices the quartermaster could employ.

“I’ll leave some footprints,” Q told him.

Bond emptied his cup of coffee and left cash on the table as he stepped out of the coffee shop. It was time to be seen again.

 

* * *

 

Finch had run the name James Bond through the net. He had walked into the MI6 and had grabbed the file, though it was a very superficial one. To get into the restricted area he would need more time and a lot more attention to detail. But what he read about Bond was enough.

Double-Oh agent, the man with the license to kill. One of the oldest in the field and one of the most successful. Finch looked at the black-and-white image. Bond was a ruggedly handsome blond with piercing eyes. Blue eyes, his file said. Very intense. Former British military.

And now the man was looking for John Reese in connection with the murder of two MI6 agents, and a CIA agent who had been a werewolf.

Add to that that someone had attempted to hack his system, had snooped around, it had set off all alarms.

It hadn’t been Root. It had been someone very skilled; terribly skilled, even. Better than Root; better than anyone Finch had ever met or heard about. Bond was listed as working alone, but he had to have had a partner. Someone was helping him, doing the hacking, the snooping, and this someone was a person of interest to Finch.

He leaned back in his chair, looking at the image. Even though it was a photo, the MI6 agent seemed to look right into his soul.

He finally used the picture to start his facial recognition software to find the man. They would need to keep an eye on him, on matters that involved Bond, because a Double-Oh after Reese was something new. The man was different from the CIA and FBI or the police. He would handle a confrontation differently.

This might be a problem.

 

*

 

It was late when he entered the abandoned building that housed the heart and soul of their operation. At least it seemed to be abandoned. Reese had no idea how many different homes and bases Finch had set up. He only knew that Harold Finch had created a net that was as incredible as it seemed impossible.

He was, as always, at his computer. Impeccably dressed, posture stiff. Reese had yet to find out what had injured Finch this badly, had given him his permanent limp and had made it necessary for him to have spinal fusion surgery of the neck.

Harold Finch was a far cry from the men who had given Reese his orders before, but he was one of the few he respected and wouldn’t hesitate to protect to his last breath. Maybe it was in his blood; maybe it was pure instinct. Maybe it was the curse of his soul.

Reese only knew that he was needed here, that Harold Finch had given him a second chance. A man who he was only slowly getting to know, a man who seemed to be so many people, who had an incredible wealth, an even more incredible intellect, and who was officially dead.

His preternatural side was interested in this man.

Now Finch looked up, the eyes behind the glasses sharp as always. John had been struck by the quiet intelligence before, the way this unassuming man was so powerful, moved so easily in the shadows, and held such secrets in his hands.

“I believe I found our Mr. Bond.”

Reese raised his eyebrows.

Finch just hit a few keys and an image of the MI6 agent popped up. He was standing in Central Park, watching something. Another image showed him entering a hotel. The next had him sitting in a coffee shop.

“I have been following him the past hour.”

Reese looked at the image. “I believe I should take a closer look then.”

Finch was silent and Reese turned to leave.

“Be careful, Mr. Reese,” he called after him.

Reese smiled. “I always am, Harold.”

 

* * *

 

He had strolled around the streets of New York, enjoying the crisp air. The clouds had lifted a little, blue sky was peeking through, and no snow was falling. People were enjoying the day and Bond had done his share of pretend-sightseeing.

So far he had not picked up on anyone following him, but he was sure someone was.

And finally there was someone.

Bond met the eyes of the man he had been looking for. Reese stood across the street from the restaurant he had chosen for an early lunch, a silent watcher, impeccably dressed in a dark coat, dark suit pants and black leather shoes. The Double-Oh just smiled, no humor in the movement of his lips, and left some money on the table as he rose. He walked away from the restaurant, following a route he had explored before and which would get them to an abandoned alley between two restaurants and off the main traffic routes.

Aside from the garbage bins and stacks of old cardboard boxes and wooden crates, no one was around.

Bond turned and looked at his shadow.

“Mr. Reese, I presume,” he greeted the ex-CIA agent.

“Mr. Bond,” the man replied. His voice was smooth, dark, low.

The phoenix stirred, taking an interest. Something about Reese told Bond he was not just human. He had been part of a werewolf pack, but wasn’t a wolf himself. Their suspicions about him were correct. He could feel it. Something… something was there. And it was a predator like Bond. It was watching, calculating the risk, calculating the threat, and waiting.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Reese tilted his head. “So I heard. I’m interested why.”

“One of your pack members was murdered. He worked with two MI6 agents on a joint case.”

Reese’s features didn’t even twitch. “I have no pack, Mr. Bond.”

“Former pack. You were CIA once. Your alpha was Mark Snow.”

Now there was a flash. Not just recognition; it was something more.

“He’s no longer my alpha, Mr. Bond. It hasn’t been my concern for a very long time.”

Bond smiled coldly. “Maybe. You can understand that a few people are interested as to why, aside from your alpha and his second, only you have survived the killing spree that took down a whole pack of werewolves.”

“I might,” was the even, dark reply. “But I didn’t kill them.”

“I’m not the one to determine that.”

“You just bring me in? As a favor to the CIA?”

He shrugged.

“Too bad I’m going to disappoint you,” Reese stated easily.

Bond sighed. It would have surprised him if matters had gone smoothly.

Oh well.

He had tried.

 

 

The thing about taking down an MI6 agent was: it was rather difficult. Bond was highly skilled, a killer like Reese, had received most likely the same training, and the only difference between them was that John Reese had had werewolves insisting to train him in their way, too.

It was probably what ended the fight before Reese had to resort to more drastic measures.

He hadn’t really wanted to kill the British agent, just incapacitate him for now, take him out of the picture for a while, maybe a day, maybe more. It would give him and Finch time to find the werewolf killer who had also taken the lives of the MI6 agents. It would prove that Reese was innocent, remove the threat of more international visitors after his hide, and return the status quo.

Wiping blood off his face from the split lip and the cut over his left eyebrow, Reese looked at the motionless form. Bond was almost completely buried under the wooden crates that had been stacked against the wall. He had a head wound that was bleeding profusely and he would most likely have to deal with a murderous headache when he woke.

But he was still alive.

Reese had checked.

He grudgingly had to give Bond his due: he was a very good fighter. Even employing moves learned from the pack, Reese hadn’t really managed to slow him down. It had been a close call.

“Mr. Reese?”

“I’m still here, Finch,” he answered easily as he straightened his clothes.

“Good to hear. How is Mr. Bond?”

“Currently in no position to answer that question. But he’ll live.”

Reese dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief and wiped the blood off his face. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, though that might be difficult in a city like New York. Too many whack jobs.

“Maybe we should drop Detective Carter a call,” he suggested. “There is a man in an alley, unconscious. Looks like he was robbed. He incidentally carries a weapon.”

“She won’t be able to hold him for long.”

“Long enough.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “I believe I have found the hacker.”

Reese raised his eyebrows. The left one stung. “Where?”

The address was a downtown location, just across Central park, and Reese brushed the last bit of dirt off his clothes. He didn’t bother with removing Bond’s weapon or wallet. He had neutralized a threat for the time being; next was the man who had apparently managed to break into Finch’s system.

“Well, let’s meet our mystery friend,” he decided and walked off at a brisk pace.

“I’ll let Detective Carter know about Mr. Bond’s whereabouts.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know where John left this guy, but he isn’t here.”

Detective Joss Carter, cell phone at her ear, looked around the deserted alleyway. Yes, there was a stack of toppled crates. Yes, there were signs of a scuffle. Yes, there was some blood, though that could have come from a dog fight or a cat making a messy meal out of some varmint. But there was no sign of an unconscious MI6 agent.

“It seems Mr. Bond has quite a hard head,” Finch replied, sounding mystified.

She could hear him typing at his keyboard.

“I can hardly put an APB out on him, Finch. He’s an agent of a foreign government, but England isn’t the enemy and he hasn’t committed any crimes so far. If push comes to shove I have to set him free the moment I find him.”

“I’m quite aware of that, Detective Carter. Let me worry about Mr. Bond and his pursuit of our acquaintance. Thank you.”

She shot the silent, dark cell phone a frown. Finch liked to hang up on people before they could even react to his words.

A cold gust of wind hit her and she pulled the collar of her coat up. Carter walked out of the alley and back to her car. She had a job to do and cases to investigate.

But in the back of her mind she was worried. The MI6 was after Reese for something he claimed he hadn’t done. She believed him. Carter had known the former CIA operative long enough to believe at least that about him: he wasn’t a cold-blooded serial killer.

 

* * *

 

Reese stood in front of the hotel. High class, luxurious, costing a small fortune per night. He should be surprised, but he really wasn’t. He had been set up in all kinds of establishments himself. Some had been dingy, run-down, smelling of things best not pondered too deeply. Others had had every creature comfort imaginable. Apparently the MI6 had decided to splurge a little.

He walked inside.

“I have located his signal,” Finch could be heard. “You might want to know that Mr. Bond recovered before Detective Carter arrived on the scene.”

Reese grunted. He waited for the elevator and got on with two others.

“I have been unable to find him so far,” Finch continued.

The elevator stopped and the two men got off. Reese continued to one of the top floors.

“The room is rented to a company name. Global Import and Export. It’s a British company, of course.”

“Of course,” Reese murmured.

He got off when he was on the correct floor and walked noiselessly through the corridor toward the suite’s door. It had a computer keypad and needed a special card issued to guests only.

Reese didn’t have a card; he had Finch.

He pulled his gun.

“Any time you’re ready,” he murmured.

The light on the entrance key pad turned green.

Reese lifted a corner of his mouth in a brief smile, then he walked inside.

 

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

The man aiming a gun at him was a bit taller than Bond. He had dark hair that was shot through with a little gray, intense eyes, and he was dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and no tie. The smooth features were a natural olive color and belied the suggested age from the graying hair. It was actually difficult to place him age-wise, but Q had read the file and knew he was about Bond’s age.

The Man in the Suit.

John Reese.

Ex-military. Ex-CIA. Not a werewolf, but most likely a supernatural. And on almost everyone’s wanted list.

Q didn’t see an earpiece, but he knew it was there. The man was operating as an independent agent and he had to have a handler, even if he wasn’t a werewolf.

“MI6, I presume” Reese said and he sounded intrigued.

Q’s face remained blank. He refused to be baited. He had his own gun up. Q had been quite aware of Reese’s approach, had watched him through the hotel’s security system, and he had been ready. He had wanted Reese to come to him, had planned it with Bond, and it had worked perfectly. He had left his footprints to be followed; Reese’s partner had done just that.

Reese regarded him like a predator would size up its prey. Not that it perturbed Q in any way. He was used to dealing with predators. A whole Double-Oh section of them. And his own partner was the worst. Facing a fully fledged phoenix was a terrifying thing.

Reese tilted his head a little. Q suspected he was listening to whatever he was being told over the earpiece. He was very tempted to log in, but refrained from doing so.

He was waiting for Bond.

“Though I guess you aren’t a spy,” he finally said.

“And I guess you aren’t Homeland Security, CIA, FBI or any such agency,” Q replied pleasantly, playing dumb.

He kept his gun aimed steadily at the perceived threat. He could shoot. He had proven that countless times on the range. He had just never shot at a human being before.

The man smiled humorlessly.

It wasn’t exactly a Mexican stand-off kind of situation, but this was not getting them anywhere. Reese wouldn’t be inclined to just leave, though Q doubted he would shoot a British national who happened to be part of MI6 just like that. He also doubted he would simply slap his hands and tell him to stay out of his business.

Actually, Q had no idea how Reese would deal with this and Bond had yet to call in or make an appearance.

Vexing.

Q decided to ignore his own warnings and reached for the comm. line he knew was there. Technopathically speaking it was child’s play. He simply inserted himself into the active connection, got his bearings and then placed his own anchor.

::Mr. Reese, I believe the gentleman is far more than an MI6 agent:: a male voice, distinguished, older, said. ::I’m running into some quite extensive blocks trying to identify him::

Q almost laughed. Good luck breaking into his security system. Even if he ran facial recognition he wouldn’t so much as get a blip. He had given Reese’s partner the bread crumbs to follow, but everything else had been locked away.

And it would stay locked.

“We’ve reached an impasse,” he said out loud.

“Doubtful.”

“You. Me. No one else.”

He knew there was no one else. The cameras everywhere told the story. Yes, he could alert the hotel to the intruder, but that would only make things more complicated. It would bring security and the police, and it would result in a lot of questions. His papers were fool proof, yes, but they were here on a mission and that meant keeping a low profile.

Unlike Bond, Q could do just that. He didn’t have to blow anything up.

“What does the British secret service want from me?” Reese asked.

“I believe my partner already told you; before you dropped a stack of crates on him. You’ve come up in an investigation into the death of one of our Double-Oh agents,” Q answered truthfully.

::There is no way I can ID this man, Mr. Reese. I believe I also raised some alarms.::

“How atypical of you,” Reese murmured. His voice was so low, Q only heard him because he was logged in.

“You believe I killed him?”

“Did you?” Q countered.

The cold eyes sparked with something akin to humor. Q could identify it because Bond had that very same expression sometimes.

“No.”

“And you want me to take your word for it why?”

Reese shrugged, flicking his eyes at the gun.

“Oh yes,” Q muttered, still steadily aiming his own at Reese. “Very convincing. And not very impressive. Almost killing Bond isn’t either, though I’m impressed he didn’t kill you.”

Reese looked a bit perplexed, but he was covering it well. “I don’t deal well with bullies,” he only said, voice smooth as silk.

Q found the low, soft tones almost hypnotic. He had been studying the posture, the whole manner of Reese, and he just knew the man wasn’t a werewolf.

“If I believe you,” Q went on conversationally, “and you didn’t kill our agent, his handler and a CIA operative by the name of Carl Urich, and I can see that name sparks a memory, then you have just become a target yourself, Mr. Reese.”

The silent stare prompted him to continue, though the gun was still fixed on Q in a very steady way.

“Urich and five more CIA agents were killed over the past months, all werewolves, all of the same pack. The very same pack you ran with, Mr. Reese. There are only three more members of your pack alive, including your alpha. You can see how we first came up with your name as the perpetrator as you are the odd man out. You are missing, believed dead in the official files, though the CIA knows you are very much alive and active in this very city.”

“Why not the alpha?”

“Oh please.”

It got him a brief hint of a smile. “You have no idea who Mark Snow is, do you?”

The smile was almost playful with a sharp edge that would have set off alarms if Q hadn’t already known how dangerous the man was.

“I think I have a very good idea, Mr. Reese. You see, my talents spread out further than mere surface hacking. I believe the friend in your ear can attest to that. He has been trying to enter my files for the past minutes we have been talking and I’ve been keeping him out.”

That got him a raised eyebrow.

::We are dealing with a supernatural, Mr. Reese:: the handler said, sounding intrigued.

::”Preternatural”:: Q said out loud and using the connection simultaneously.

It was as close as he could make a man like Reese gape in surprise.

::He has hacked into the connection!:: Finch exclaimed. ::Impossible!::

::Hardly:: Q addressed the handler, Finch. ::I know what I’m doing and if I’m correct, so do you. I’m willing to believe you didn’t order the kills, Mr. Finch, which makes your friend Mr. Reese here a target with a very big bull’s eye on his back. There are only two pack members left::

Silence greeted him.

“Why should I trust you not to be that killer, Mr. MI6?”

There was a soft clicking noise and Reese froze. Bond stepped into the room, blue eyes cold, face a mask. There was a cut on his head that had stopped bleeding and a bruise blossoming on one cheek bone. Q could see the preternatural, the phoenix, fighting for control. The very aura of his partner promised death.

“Because if he was the one, you would be dead now.”

Reese glanced at him, then slowly lowered the gun. “I can see that.”

And then his arm came up and slammed into Bond’s. The gun went flying, but the agent wasn’t easily overwhelmed. What followed was an exchange of blows that had Q appreciate the Double-Oh’s training, but also confess that Reese wasn’t a slacker either. Both men were evenly matched and neither backed down.

Reese stumbled back after a hard kick and gave Bond an appreciative nod. Bond just smirked and went in for the next exchange of blows.

::Is this really necessary?:: Q sent, using the comm. line he was still logged into. He had lowered and secured his own gun.

The hotel wouldn’t be happy about the destruction of their property, even though everything would be paid for. Still, it was unnecessary to upset anyone else.

There was silence. Then,

::I believe we haven’t been introduced just yet:: Reese’s handler said carefully.

::I am the one whose firewall you’ve been trying to break. Let me tell you right now, it won’t break::

::I see. How can you communicate through this frequency? You don’t have a comm. device::

::I believe we both have questions and the answers are slightly more complicated than we would think::

There was a pause. Q watched Bond get another hard kick into the ribs, but he was up and at it in a heartbeat. Tenacious. He had never known his agent not to be anything but. Even with the bruises Q knew were there from the prior encounter, maybe even a cracked bone or two, he was fighting like nothing was wrong.

::You are a British government employee?:: the man Reese had been talking to asked.

::Yes. And you have been watching us using traffic cameras, private security networks and probably even the police surveillance. Which implies you are logged into a system you shouldn’t be. It also implies you are well-versed in the world of hacking and computers::

::Very well deduced::

::It takes one to know one:: Q watched the two men. ::Call of yours, I’ll call off mine::

It got him a chuckle. ::Mr. Reese:: the handler said.

“Bond,” Q called simultaneously.

Both men stopped, breathing hard, looking bruised, and bleeding.

“I believe Mr. Reese’s partner and I have reached an understanding that doesn’t involved force.”

Reese cocked an eyebrow. Bond did the opposite; he frowned a little.

But they both stood down.

::I believe we are not on completely opposite sides, Mr. Finch:: Q commented.

::I hope not::

He suppressed an annoyed expression when Bond moved closer to him, body radiating tension, the phoenix snarling and hissing as it still perceived John Reese a lethal threat.

Of course he was.

He was a trained killer and he wasn’t unlike James Bond. Actually, those two probably had more in common than they wanted to believe.

“We are not here for you, Mr. Reese,” Q spoke out loud, voice calm, even, the handler voice he used with his agent, too. “Unless you are the man who killed six CIA agents of the same wolf pack and two MI6 agents. Then we will bring you down.”

Reese cocked one eyebrow. He was as tense as Bond. “I didn’t kill my former pack.”

So not werewolf, Q thought.

“Then it’s someone with a major grudge,” Bond rumbled, straightening his clothes. It was his only admission to a mostly defused situation.

“Someone who can walk up to a werewolf and kill him without ever raising suspicions,” Q added.

::That narrows the list of possible suspects:: Finch said thoughtfully.

“Quite,” the quartermaster agreed. “Four of the pack were killed in a very personal matter, two from long-distance by a headshot. Their bodies were burned to insure the death was permanent.”

Werewolves were resilient and very hard to kill, not unlike a phoenix, though for them there was something like a kill-shot. Burning the body always assured there would be no survival.

Q’s cell phone announced an incoming call. He didn’t make much fuss about it, simply routed it through the comm. devices.

“Agent Leiter,” he greeted the caller.

Reese raised an eyebrow in mild surprise at the move. Like Finch he had no idea what Q was capable of. Only Bond looked neutral.

“You are on speaker,” the technopath added.

“Evans is dead,” Leiter only said, his voice holding that barely restrained anger of a failed protection detailed.

“How?” Bond only asked.

“Car accident. The car went up in flames. Looks like he was shot and incapacitated, then the vehicle was lit on fire.”

“When did that happen?” Q wanted to know.

“Probably last night. ME’s report is not in yet. Witnesses saw the car go up, but no one can say how the accident happened.”

Bond’s brows drew down. Reese just listened silently.

“Where is the alpha now?” Q asked calmly.

“Protective custody, though you can probably imagine how well that is going. Because of these events it was decided to put him into another pack.”

“Ouch,” Bond muttered.

“Oh yeah. It’s a hoot. Fur’s flying. Aside from Reese, he’s the only one left.”

Reese lifted a corner of his mouth. Bond mirrored the facial twitch.

“Any leads on your end?” Leiter asked.

“Maybe. Right now I can tell you that Reese had nothing to do with Evans’ death.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve been on his trail all day yesterday,” Bond spoke up.

Reese smirked again.

“You know where he is?” Leiter demanded.

“I’m reasonably sure he is in New York,” was the neutral answer.

“Bond…”

“We’re not chasing down your agents, Felix. We’re looking for the killer of ours.”

It got him a sigh. “Right now I don’t give a flying shit what Reese has been doing those last two years. If he has a target on his back, keep him alive. If he’s involved, do what you have to.”

That got him another raised eyebrow from Reese.

“I’ll let you handle the Reese side. We’ll make sure the alpha survives. We’ll get this guy, James. For all our agents.”

With that Leiter hung up.

“So now we’ve established you’re not the pack killer,” Q spoke up. “But you are a target, Mr. Reese.”

“Whoever took out the pack is hunting werewolves. Not me.”

“They are after the pack,” Bond begged to differ. “You ran with them. You’re part of them. Maybe the alpha is the next target and you’ll be the last. Or maybe you’re next.” An almost cruel smile came to his lips. “And if you’re next, you’d make the perfect bait.”

::A very bad idea:: Finch could be heard.

“But the best I’ve heard all day,” Reese only said.

::Mr. Reese…::

“My decision, Finch. They were my pack once, even if past actions speak for themselves. I’m not going to shed a tear about Snow, but the others weren’t involved.”

Q exchanged a look with his partner. Bond looked as intrigued as he felt. He might have to dig deeper into the CIA files again, take a stroll through the high security walls and past feral watchdogs.

::We can’t be sure you are next::

“We can’t be sure of anything unless we try.” Q held the dark gaze of the other agent steadily.

He wasn’t easily impressed, nor was he easily scared. He was a phoenix’s partner, the quartermaster of MI6, and he had faced worse. He had looked into the void of Bond’s soul, had seen the death and the primal thing he was underneath that human guise. He had looked into the eternity of his soul, the darkness that would never be tamed, and Reese was a puppy next to the man James Bond was.

A dangerous puppy, yes. One with a bite and no warning bark. One who could kill Q in ten inventive new ways, but he wasn’t a killer or assassin. He was a man on a mission of his own, with a handler to keep him on an even path, just like Bond.

Hm.

Q held on to that thought and stored it for later exploration.

::How would you want to go about making Mr. Reese a target?:: Finch asked.

He didn’t really sound happy about that.

“Place a few bread crumbs and wait for whoever follows them,” Q answered easily. “And with the surveillance you have at your disposal, Mr. Finch, I believe we can work something out.”

There was silence, then, ::Maybe we can::

“I’d like to propose a meeting.”

Reese tensed and there was renewed silence on the other end of the comm. line.

“We’re on the same side,” Bond added evenly, looking at Reese.

“Your decision, Finch,” the other agent only said.

“Your terms,” Q offered.

There was a soft sigh. ::A meeting can be arranged::

“Thank you,” Q only said.

 

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Reese had left without too many words, a nod, a look, then he was gone. He had done his disappearing act and Finch had told Q he would give him the name and address of where they could meet when it was time. Q understood the caution the other man used; he would do the same. And he was in the spy business.

He had no idea who Finch was or had been. He couldn’t even tell his age through his voice. Reese trusted him and he suspected the two men had worked together for a while now. The same expression Bond was wearing right now – misgiving and slightly annoyed – had been on Reese’s face just before he had left.

Because Finch was Reese’s handler. Because he protected him.

Just like Bond acted around Q.

“Are you sure this was a wise move?” the Double-Oh finally asked when they were alone in their suite and Q had secured not only the network but also the door.

“Yes.” Q shot him a quizzical look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“We don’t know who Reese’s partner is. We’re going into this situation without a shred of intel.”

“Which is daily business for you.”

“Exactly.” Wintery eyes flashed. “For me. You’re not a field agent.”

Q tilted his head with a small smile teasing his lips. “Maybe not, but I can handle myself, 007.”

The misgiving turned into aggravation.

“And it’s the logical next step. Reese isn’t the killer, someone else is, and we can use him as bait. I also want to know who this man on the other end of the comm. line is, Bond. He’s a superb hacker. His skills are fantastic and if he wrote all the code I encountered on his own, he might even have preternatural abilities.”

“Another technopath?”

“I doubt it.”

“You said ‘Reese isn’t the killer’.”

Q sighed. “He isn’t. We were shadowing him while Evans was killed. And he can’t be in two places at once.”

“New kind of ability?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous, 007,” Q chastised.

Bond smirked. “He might have associates. Ones that would kill the werewolf.”

“I doubt it.”

“So he isn’t the one. You really believe Finch will call you?”

Q nodded. “Yes,” he answered firmly.

Bond walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous glass full of scotch. Q noticed that his dull headache had receded. The phoenix was physically close now, though not touching, and everything was good. Everything was balanced again.

“Until then there is something I want to look into. And I’ll probably need you for that.”

His partner prowled back to him. Yes, it was a prowl. Those lithe, predatory movements were a definite prowl.

“Q?”

“When I tried to find out where the hacks and counter-hacks came from, I… touched something. Something very interesting, something connected to Finch. And it’s not him. Nothing of what I felt was human, James. I want to know what it was, how it connects to him. We might have no intel on the man himself, but I can get some information in another way.”

The scowl on the handsome face was very telling.

“I’ll be fine. You’re my anchor, Bond. I can handle this.”

“Sure?”

“Very.”

The scowl stayed, but Bond didn’t try to talk him out of it. He actually never did when it came to the technopathic side of Q’s life. It was his way of showing the younger man just how much he trusted him and his abilities. It was a sign of how much he already understood of Q’s preternatural side, about his own role in it as an anchor, and what that meant.

Q looked his agent up and down, assessing his health. He and Reese hadn’t held back. Q could only see the facial injuries, but he suspected there were more.

“I’m fine, Q,” Bond answered the unspoken question.

“I highly doubt it, 007.” But he let the topic drop.

Bond would argue he was fine with broken ribs and a sucking chest wound.

His agent settled down on the bed, feet up and crossed at the ankles, looking relaxed and completely in control of the situation.

But yes, there had been a wince. He had seen it.

“How do you want me?” Bond purred.

Q laughed softly. “In an ideal world, naked and at my beck and call. But right now this is work and physical contact will be limited to mere presence.”

The blond brows rose, the eyes full of a teasing light no one ever got to see this way. This wasn’t an act, a cover persona, a role he played. This was James, the phoenix, his partner and so much more.

Q slid to his side, opened the laptop and then created an outside channel for himself to use as a launch point.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t give Bond a cue, just used the secure line to hunt for what he had touched before.

Just before he entered the HUD and with it lost touch with reality and the physical form of himself, he felt strong fingers curl around one wrist.

Then there was only the cyberspace.

Above him the phoenix hovered like the proverbial bird of prey, a terrifying creature, a nightmare, a ferocious hunter and killer.

His protector.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t given the old pack a lot of thought in the past two years. It had been a time before… before everything had turned to hell. It had been a time of purpose for John Reese. He had had missions; he had had a job to do.

And then.

Ordos.

It had been the moment his life had turned around, when he had – for the first time – been shown that the CIA wasn’t above eliminating agents they deemed redundant.

Retired.

He had been told to retire Kara Stanton and he had followed orders because Snow had told him. She had been compromised; she had been a traitor.

And he had believed it.

That Kara had been told the same about him had been the turning point in his life. He had survived Ordos, unlike his former handler, and he had gone under. He had gone deep. He had licked his wounds, healed as best as possible, and he had tried to live a new life.

All in all he had managed badly until Finch had found him. Reese had lived from day to day, had tried to find the one person in his life who had ever meant anything more than a mark, a target or a partner.

But Jessica had been killed; just a few months before he had retired himself.

Reese had lost it, had killed the one who had taken her life, and still it had given him no satisfaction. His preternatural side had mourned, had yearned for a new purpose, but he had had none.

Until Finch.

He had something to hold onto, something that meant more than just following orders. He made a difference. He saved lives instead of taking them.

Finch wasn’t his handler, but he also wasn’t simply an acquaintance. The instinct he had been born with, what made him the preternatural creature he was, needed someone to relate to. The pack had meant an alpha and while he wasn’t a werewolf, he had functioned as a pack member. A beta, so to speak. Snow had commanded his loyalty, though never his complete trust. The werewolves trusted their alpha; it was their instinct.

Reese wasn’t like them.

He had been pack, but in some regards he had been an outsider, too.

Now someone had picked them all off, except Snow and himself.

He looked at the bustle around him, people going about their daily business.

Who but another werewolf could kill a whole pack? And would Snow really take them out? Yes, he was a ruthless man, an old alpha, one who was extremely loyal to the CIA. But kill his own pack?

It would go against everything a werewolf felt. It was their strongest trait, this loyalty, and with it one of their biggest weaknesses. Pack was sacred. Pack was family.

So it had to be someone else. Another pack? A loner? Most likely not even a werewolf, he mused.

But who? Some of his former colleagues had been shot up close and personal, meaning the killer had faced them – and they hadn’t even defended themselves.

He didn’t know.

Reese only knew that aside from Snow, he was the only target they could work with.

Did he trust Bond and Q?

Something inside of him stirred.

Strangely enough, yes, his instincts said he could trust the other men. Bond wasn’t that different from him. Actually, they were very much alike.

Alike enough for Bond to be a preternatural.

That was instinctive knowledge as well. Not a werewolf, not anything even close, but he wasn’t completely human either.

And Q… Despite looking very young, he wasn’t. Well, he was young, but not as young as he looked. And he seemed like a calming rock in a wild sea. Reese’s instinct had reacted to that, taking in the weapon, the man, the aura, and he had decided then and there that Q wouldn’t shoot him in cold blood.

Reese pushed through the masses and headed for the library. Finch had been silent the whole time, giving him the privacy Reese had subconsciously needed, and he was thankful for it.

It was time to talk to the other man.

 

* * *

 

Finch sat in the library, only the soft snores of Bear disturbing the silence. He looked at the dog with a fond expression, then went back to his screen. Hacking into MI6 had taken time and effort, but now he had answers. At least a few more than before.

He knew who he had been talking to, who was Bond’s partner, though he had no answer as to who the man truly was. He had his designation and job description, but not his real name. MI6 guarded that fiercely and he suspected his counterpart had set up the firewalls himself.

Very impressive, indeed.

“Q?” Reese asked, voice soft and laced with interest.

Finch had heard him walk up to the main computer station, almost silent, movements lithe and measured, but still loud enough not to scare his employer and partner. There was also the fact that Reese had a certain presence. He was there. Finch had no other explanation for it. And it happened only around Finch, it seemed. He was this commanding, completely there presence, this fact in Finch’s life.

He had never really tried to find out why.

Well, liar, part of him sing-songed. He knew what Reese was. He knew he wasn’t completely human, that he had run with a wolf pack in the CIA. He knew he was not simply a killer who, when pointed at the right target, did what he was told to do. He wasn’t a tool.

Reese was a protector as well. He had chosen Finch, had given him his trust and loyalty. Finch had earned it and it made him proud and warmed him like nothing had since his own presumed death. Reese had given his life meaning and he had given Reese’s life direction again.

He was the kind of preternatural who needed this. Not guidance, not a leash, just someone he could trust and who understood his nature.

“The quartermaster of MI6,” he now only said, “head of their so-called Q branch.”

“And his name is Q? How quaint.”

Finch smiled, turning his head a little stiffly. “His code name. I find it difficult to get into any of his files that might contain his real one. I ran the face, but there is no match anywhere. He is very well protected.”

“Do you trust them?” Reese wanted to know, voice neutral.

His presence seemed to increase, like a physical being, his second nature, prowling around and rumbling, not completely at ease but also not aggressive.

“No. But if someone is killing your old pack I believe it is important to look into. The MI6 agents are our best chance right now.” Finch raised an eyebrow.

Reese nodded, but he didn’t look too happy.

“Be careful,” he said.

“The same goes for you.”

The deep-set blue eyes were dark, intense, maybe even frightening to someone who hadn’t looked into them so often before. Finch wasn’t afraid. He trusted this man completely.

Reese held his eyes for a moment longer, then just nodded and walked to where Finch stored snacks and coffee.

He watched him for a second, still so very much aware of the other man, like even when he wasn’t close he was right next to Finch, then he turned back to the computer.

He had some additional information to check.

 

* * *

 

Q had found recorded images of Reese after he had applied his skills and hacked into the traffic camera system. He had followed his path through the streets of New York, along the subway system, through alleys and back yards, but he had finally lost the man as he had expertly dodged between cameras.

And Q hadn’t really tried to follow him any more. It might be interesting where he went, if he would go back to wherever Finch had his headquarters, or find his place of residence, but it wasn’t his primary concern.

Instead he had turned to the HUD, had slipped neatly inside and moved through the network, following the very faint, very encrypted signals he had noticed before.

Part of those signals was the comm. line Reese and Finch used. It was a fascinating code and it spoke of the high level Finch operated in.

Another was… background. Something like the source.

Q had touched something akin to an artificial intelligence before, elaborate programs that mimicked intelligence, but the machines in question had never become able of independent decision.

This… this was different. Still a program. Still learning with each data input, with each second it interacted with humans. Still not beyond a primary stage.

But it was different.

It felt… protective.

Q stood outside the barrier that kept the program from touching him directly and he studied it with interest. He couldn’t define it, but he had this feeling that something was looking back at him. Something still very young, very much unaware of a lot of things, except for the lines it had to the outside world. It wasn’t truly there, just a fragment of the whole, but it was strong and powerful and at the center of an intricate web of outside information that streamed in constantly.

Q walked along the barrier, never passing the border between the HUD and this semi-intelligence, and he saw flashes of data, non-stop and massive, all being fed into the core of this machine. It was a super-computer, but also far more than just that. It was a machine like he had never seen before, the program intricate and complicated and consisting of a language Q understood instinctively because of his technopathy.

Only a few could write code like this.

Q was one of them and he had always assumed only another technopath could copy his efforts.

He had just been proven wrong.

What are you? he thought.

As if the machine had heard him, the strange presence seemed to turn and look at him.

Just for a second.

And it had Q freeze and just look back, holding eyes that were no eyes, looking into something that had no face, no features, was just code upon code upon code.

Ethereal and beautiful and not human. Never human. Not preternatural, not supernatural. It was a machine and yet it wasn’t.

Child-like and evolving.

Admin.

He caught that one word and he knew where it led. He didn’t have to follow the imperceptible line to a place that shouldn’t exist, a backdoor that shouldn’t be there.

Admin.

There was the Admin and there was The Machine.

The moment passed and he was still behind the barrier the HUD had created, safe from directly touching The Machine. He was a technopath and he would be able to handle the program, though he wasn’t so sure he could ever extricate himself from it, should he step inside.

It would be more than an addiction. It was perfection in the making, clear-cut and powerful, loyal in a way that wasn’t human, and protective. Limited in its way because of the code that kept it from evolving unchecked, but still so much more than the Admin had ever intended it to be.

Q blinked and the HUD disappeared, the room around him coming back.

Reality.

Unchanged.

With only an hour that had passed. It had felt like seconds.

Bond’s hand was still curled around his wrist, a stable anchor between the worlds he traveled, a fix point in cyberspace felt even though Q wasn’t truly aware of his own body any longer.

The phoenix’s eyes were cool with a spike of fire in their depths, the blue lighter than before, almost silvery, intense, catching Q nearly off guard. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, fascinated, drawn in, almost drowning in the stead-fast presence, the solid, very real way Bond was… he just was. There was no doubt about him being there, about his place in Q’s soul. He felt him all around his mind, his soul, the darkness like wings. It embraced him, shielded him, kept him sane.

“007,” he managed.

“Q.” And the smirk was very real as well. It broke the moment and he blinked.

Q raked a hand through his messy hair and leaned back against the headboard of the bed.

Bond’s fingers were still around his wrist. It felt good. It felt even better when those strong fingers opened and slid into his own, clasping his hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

“Found what you wanted.”

It wasn’t even a question, because Bond knew. He might not be a technopath, but he knew nevertheless. It was a knack and probably something that was part of their connection.

“Yes. A lot. And more questions.”

Finch had created something incredible without intending to, a learning, evolving machine, using a code that was absolutely unique and new.

Q would be damned if the man didn’t have a bit of preternatural in him.

Bond raised an eyebrow, clearly asking.

Q smiled. And he told his partner what he had seen, what he had touched, and just how much he really didn’t understand.

He was really looking forward to meeting the Admin.

 

 

Bond went for a shower and a change of clothes and Q knew he was patching himself up in the bathroom. He walked out again with wet hair, dressed only in sweat pants, and Q raised his eyebrows at the colorful bruises. Bond mimicked the quizzical expression and Q shook his head. He ran an appreciative eye over the rest of the exposed skin.

“At your beck and call, Q,” Bond said in that low, sultry voice that created goose bumps on Q’s skin.

He looked at the very enticing sight. “Wouldn’t want to break you.” He shot a pointed look at the bruises and scrapes.

Bond laughed. It was an open, amused laugh, eyes alight with humor. “You couldn’t.”

“I could try.”

“Give it your very best.”

His partner held out a hand.

“I just might, 007.”

Q waited for a heartbeat, then just took him up on the invitation.

 

 

And no, he didn’t break him. If anything, Bond broke him.

 

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

The meeting place was neutral ground. At least as neutral as it could be in a city that Finch knew a lot better than Q did and which he had a direct surveillance line to. Q had no idea if the man he was about to meet was a technopath, some other kind of technologically inclined preternatural, or simply damned good and genius-level like Q.

The lounge and bar was frequented by all kinds of people, but mostly business men and women on their lunch break. Q looked around the room and when he met the eyes of a bespectacled, older man he knew he had found Harold Finch.

Dressed in a suit and tie he looked like a bookkeeper or librarian. His movements were a little stiff and Q noticed that he didn’t turn his head, more like most of his upper body. Age-wise Finch was hard to place. Fifties? Younger? He had no idea.

“Mr. Finch,” he greeted him.

Finch’s eyes were sharp behind those old-fashioned glasses and Q knew he was probably as surprised as the quartermaster to meet his ‘opponent’ in person. Q had dressed in a rather smart outfit, looking the part of the vintage hipster. With his laptop bag slung across his chest and the tie under a red-blue-mustard colored sweater, the glasses, the messily arranged hair, he didn’t really stand out among the crowd of this room.

“Mr….?”

“Whittmore will be fine. It’s as real as your name, I believe.” He raised a corner of his mouth in a smile.

Finch smiled in reply. “I believe it is.”

A waitress came over and Q ordered tea and a glass of water. She came back not much later and placed his order in front of him. The smile she gave Q was just this side of flirty.

There was something knowing in Finch’s eyes, something telling Q the man knew a lot more than he let on.

Well, two could play that game.

“I have to admit I’m impressed,” the quartermaster said casually. “I first believed you to be just a hacker with a knack. I was proven differently.”

Finch regarded him with an unreadable expression.

“You are in the middle of a very complicated web, Mr. Finch. MI6 doesn’t care what you do here. We only came to find the killer of our agents. What we found was an asset in that hunt. And more.” He tilted his head. “You’re not just a hacker, am I right? You are a programmer. This is your code, your unique handwriting, and it belongs to something a lot bigger.”

Finch still looked at him without a word or even a twitch, though there was something in his eyes.

“You created a machine. It calls you The Admin.”

There was a flicker of surprise, the lips parting ever so slightly in astonishment.

Q smiled a little. Gotcha!

“I’m sure you did your homework the moment Bond and I appeared on your playground.”

Finch nodded. “A Double-Oh. An agent with the license to kill. Slightly outdated nowadays, but apparently quite effective.”

“And you tried to hack my own file.”

That got him a brief smile from the older man. “Impressive coding… Q.”

Q smirked. Of course Finch had known who he was.

“The quartermaster of MI6. I didn’t expect someone like you to be part of a murder investigation into two agents,” Finch continued. “It’s… unusual.”

“Not when the case involves supernaturals.”

“Your agents weren’t werewolves or any other supernatural kind I’m aware of.”

“They weren’t, but the angle caught our interest. My file tells you a lot of things, like my position with MI6, that I handle Bond, that I’m a genius-level hacker, that I invented my own coding at a very young age, that I’ve been with MI6 for a while, despite my age.” Q met the sharp eyes evenly. “It doesn’t tell you what else I am. That I can look at your machine and see past the code, past the limits of human hacking. What I did, linking our comm. devices, wasn’t done by hand.”

Finch’s eyes widened.

“I can see your machine, Mr. Finch. I can look at the very core and see it as a physical representation in my mind.”

“Technopath?” he asked, sounding almost breathless… and envious.

Q smiled. “Yes.”

There was a moment of silence, Finch clearly working through the revelation.

“Bond is your anchor?”

Sharp. Very sharp. The man knew what he was talking about.

“Yes.”

He could almost see the wheels turning in that agile brain.

“You were inside the program?”

“No. I looked at it. Look, no touch. It’s… fascinating and very dangerous. Especially for someone like me.”

The machine was like a layer cake, beautiful, delicious, incredible, coding Q had never seen before running at its very core. But he understood it. Technopathy gave him that ability and he learned lightning fast.

“But I guess you know that, Mr. Finch. To be able to write such a program, make it work like you did, communicate with it like you do, you have an ability.”

Finch looked at him, drawn between surprise, shock and denial. He was clearly fighting against letting Q know something only he had ever known.

“You’re not a technopath,” Q prodded.

“How would you know?”

“Call it a hunch. There are so few of us and we are so very susceptible to losing ourselves in this technological world, you wouldn’t be functioning the way you are.”

“I might have had an anchor.”

Q tilted his head. “Maybe. But if you had an anchor, he or she would be here. Reese isn’t it, because you two haven’t known each other long enough for him to be there when you wrote the code. You wouldn’t have been able to create all of this in your head and not go insane. Or end up as a bunch of pixilated data in the net while they turned off the machines that kept your body functioning. And there is no one else. An anchor means absolute trust, Mr. Finch. He has to know what he is to you. No secrets, no lies, no obfuscation of the truth. You can’t switch out anchors either.”

The sharp eyes were still on him and Q remained as calm as he did when facing the primal part of James.

“I might have a… preternatural predisposition,” Finch finally said. “I’m not technopathic. And no, I never used anyone as an anchor. I can’t log myself into a machine or access a network by mind.”

“You simply have a talent to hack?”

“I have a talent to code, Q. An innate understanding of this code, of this one language that gave life to a program that is now only called The Machine.”

“You’re a cipher,” Q said, intrigued. “Very limited to creating code, one that only you will ever understand.”

Finch studied him. “Maybe I am.”

It would explain some things. Though Finch had probably never worked on his abilities, using them only to program this one machine, his unique creation, his personal project.”

“But this machine is not with you, here in New York,” he stated.

“How can you tell?”

“It felt like looking down a very long hallway into a building that wasn’t here. A very bad analogy, I think, but the only one that I can come up with.” Q sipped at his tea. “I’m not perfect in what I can do with my abilities, Mr. Finch. They also have severe drawbacks.”

“You are anchored.”

“It’s not the solution to every headache.”

Finch gave him a tiny smile. “I don’t know where it is,” he said truthfully. “I only have a backdoor into it.”

“What is its purpose?”

Silence greeted his question. Q waited. He knew he could continue his own hacking or he could show his own trust by letting the Admin explain what they were doing.

“I created The Machine to warn us against acts of terror,” Finch finally said, voice soft. “After 9-11 I wanted an early warning system against terrorism.”

Q’s eyebrows rose.

“The Machine utilizes feeds from domestic organizations such as the NSA, and foreign entities including Interpol. It reviews all video footage, phone calls, electronic transactions and e-mails secretly, without anyone knowing about its existence. It’s finding patterns in activities that no human would ordinarily look for.”

“And it gives you their names?”

“It gives me the social security number. Nothing else.”

“Where does it look?” the quartermaster asked, stunned.

“Everywhere.”

His eyes widened. Finch only smiled humorlessly. “The Machine sorts persons of interest into relevant and irrelevant cases. Every night at midnight, the irrelevant list is erased. I realized that the irrelevant list contained people about to be involved in violent crimes, which is why I left myself a backdoor to the Machine in order to access the irrelevant list.”

“Who controls it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Finch shrugged. “I sold it to the US government for a dollar.”

Q knew he was gaping and he pulled himself together.

“The backdoor is my only way in, but it doesn’t tell me where they took my creation.”

Q’s mind was whirling and he wanted to ask so many questions, but right now they had a different mission to run, a serial killer to catch. He saw Finch’s smile and sighed.

“Well. Is there a way you could use your machine to find who is behind the killings?”

“No. It doesn’t work that way. I can’t find one single person. It’s watching everyone.”

“Vexing.”

Finch chuckled. “Indeed.”

 

*

 

Putting two agents the caliber of James Bond and John Reese into the same room together was the recipe for a catastrophe in the making. Or the beginning of something else; a temporary partnership that might not be based on complete trust, simply an understanding of the other man.

Two alpha males. Two very dangerous men who had killed for their countries. Two men who would protect their partners with their lives.

And one of them could definitely come back from the dead.

Wintery blue eyes regarded John Reese, every move he made, every single twitch catalogued and analyzed. The phoenix was a primal creature and it felt twitchy and unwell around whatever John Reese was. While it wasn’t a separate entity from Bond, it was something detached from his civilized, logical self. It was an instinct, a void inside him, that reacted to danger and claimed what it wanted and clearly hungered for what it needed.

John Reese was very dangerous.

It took a preternatural to recognize another. Bond was pretty sure that Reese was a supernatural and from the looks he received from the ex-CIA agent, the man knew Bond wasn’t human either.

Not a werewolf, though. Definitely not a wolf. Bond had run into a few and they gave off different vibes. Humans didn’t pick up on them, but the phoenix did and something in Bond reacted to that vibe. Werewolves felt slightly off; not in a bad way, just in a very tell-tale one.

Both men were silently contemplating the depth of their coffee mugs. While Finch and Q were talking, their partners had set up guard a few tables over, barely glancing at the two men as they exchanged pleasantries and finally got down to business.

Q had confirmed that Reese had an earpiece and a mic to communicate with Finch, and he had it on him even now. He had also confirmed that Finch had a cell phone that was currently cloned to Reese’s, enabling him to listen. So whatever the two handlers were talking about, their respective agents would hear.

Bond was tense, but not even close to lethally feral because of the whole set-up. While he recognized Reese as a fellow predator, the ex-CIA didn’t exude it like others of his kind. He was laid back, calm, very even-keeled, and while that would have thrown Bond a year ago, he now only saw the signs of a balanced primal beast that had found purpose and meaning.

Like himself.

And still not him. Nothing could compare to the nightmare that was the phoenix, the ruthless darkness, the hungry void that lusted for blood and death. Even a werewolf in a killing frenzy was a puppy dog compared to what could be unleashed from that void, should it ever be freed from its human bonds.

“How long have you known?” Reese finally asked.

Bond raised an eyebrow at the softly voiced question. Reese rarely ever raised his voice, his tone calm, sometimes with a menacing touch, but never loud.

It was interesting, it was unique, and it spoke of a control beyond human possibilities. Something lurked underneath that smooth exterior, though it wasn’t a creature ready to kill. It was curious, yes. It was protective and intense, of course. But it wasn’t a horror.

Bond gave the other man a level look.

“Don’t play this game, Bond,” Reese rumbled. “I know you aren’t a werewolf, but you are not human.”

He smiled coolly. “How can you tell?”

“Let’s say it’s a knack.”

“But you can’t tell what you are facing.”

Blue eyes, a shade darker than Bond’s, deep-set and less cold, flashed with amusement. “I’m not a detector for the supernatural. Or preternatural. As for you,” he tilted his head a little, “you rub me the wrong way, Mr. Bond.”

Bond grinned. It wasn’t a nice, handsome grin; more like terrifying. He let some of the monster come forward, take a peek, look at Reese and lick its lips.

Reese didn’t even twitch. He simply raised his eyebrows.

“Quid pro quo,” Bond finally said.

It got him a nod. “That sounds fair.”

“I found out just what I had been born with after I started this career,” Bond stated. After five seconds of silence he added, “After I died the first time.”

Dark brows rose.

“Phoenix,” Bond remarked, the void rumbling through him.

Reese gazed into the inhuman eyes, not flinching away from the thing that was looking at him, and chuckled a little. “Interesting. Hellhound.”

Bond blinked.

::A preternatural; not as rare as a phoenix:: Q remarked through the earpiece. He had apparently been listening in while talking to Finch. ::But quite hard to find anyway. Just as tenacious, too. Hellhounds are good hunters and killers, but they are primarily protectors. And loyal. If you have their loyalty, you have someone who will die for you. Very intelligent, very resourceful, and very sharp. They heal fast, they are resilient, but they don’t resurrect like a phoenix is able to. But like a phoenix they are rather… untamed::

Q sounded amused.

::They can be grounded, though for that they need a purpose. For example, werewolves are grounded by a pack, even without a purpose. It’s a drawback when you’re a hellhound. They can shapeshift to a degree, but not completely. It’s mostly the eyes or claws, in addition to the very heightened senses. Hellhounds have an intense need to protect coupled with a fierce nature. They can easily be made into perfect killers::

His quartermaster was just a fountain of information.

::It explains how he was accepted in a wolf pack, though. They wouldn’t have let just any other supernatural or preternatural join. One might even have been grounding him. Probably the handler, Stanton. Hounds are like distant cousins and she would have been able to relate to him. That might also be the only reason why Mr. Reese is still alive::

Bond raised his eyebrows. “So you being a hellhound might be why you are still alive,” he translated what Q had said. “You’re not true pack. You’re an outsider.”

Reese looked thoughtful. “Possible. But it still doesn’t tell us who.”

::But it gives us a way to the killer, Mr. Reese:. Q spoke up and the way he addressed the other man, Bond knew he was back in the system and not just talking to James. ::We can use it to lure the killer out by leaving bait everywhere that you understand what has happened, that you feel the same, that you want the same::

Reese’s smile was almost feral now. His canines looked a bit sharper and the eyes were more inhuman. It seemed like there was a circle of silver around his irises, weird and possibly a trick of the light, but Bond knew it wasn’t.

This was the hellhound.

Bond reflected the smile, just with less pointy teeth and no eyes that changed color.

Q was suddenly there, next to the table, his vintage hipster style making him look young and geeky and delicious.

Well, the latter was only for Bond. He shot his quartermaster a grin. Q only gave him an exasperated expression in return.

Finch was no longer at the table, but Bond had seen the man limp out, his mind already cataloguing possible, old injuries. He knew Reese had tracked his partner’s departure, the protector fully there and ready to kill if someone threatened him.

“Finch will set up the trap, I’ll start dropping treats for the perp to follow.”

“And where will you lead him?”

Q smiled. “Your partner has found a very nice place for us to keep a lid on things, should the situation get… violent.”

Reese’s smile was terrifying all on its own. “Oh, I’m sure it will.”

Then he slid out of the booth and lithely walked toward the exit, immediately tracking Finch. Bond watched him, impressed and still curious about the other man.

“Finch is the reason he’s functioning,” Q said softly.

Bond raised an eyebrow.

Q mimicked it.

“Ready?”

“Where to, grand master?” the Double-Oh teased.

Q’s exasperation was back, but there was a smile in his eyes. “The hotel. I’ll need somewhere quiet to place the treats for the killer to find.”

“Then let’s go.”

 

 

Q was hyper-aware of the cameras everywhere and Bond picked up on it.

“He can see us?”

“Anyone who hacks into the system can. Mr. Finch simply has a very direct line into the whole of the system. Intriguing, actually.” He smiled a little as they stood at a corner, waiting for the light to turn green. “But we’re invisible.”

Bond raised an eyebrow.

“Never underestimate me, Mr. Bond.”

It got him an affectionate smile. “I never would, Mr. Whittmore.”

Q chuckled.

The light turned and they crossed the street, walking with the mass of people.

“You called him a cipher.“

“Yes. A very watered-down version of a technopath. There are a lot of variations around the globe. I believe he is capable of a lot more than what he has already done.”

“Creating this mysterious machine?”

“I’m not even sure he’s aware of what he programmed, James,” Q said evenly as they continued their walk, now entering Central Park. “The Machine took on a life of its own. There is no outside influence, no new programs, no debugging, no updates. It does everything itself. It’s a closed system and still it has input in form of what it records and filters. It interacts with Finch in a way that it doesn’t employ with whoever is using it right now. He has only a back door, but he has its complete attention.”

Bond raised his eyebrows.

They stopped and watched a dog chase after a Frisbee.

“He is The Admin,” Q explained. “He is someone the machine has known from day one. It protects him and it has done so in the past. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so alien and still so very human.”

“Sentient?”

“I don’t know. It has a self-awareness, it has loyalty in a very twisted sense, and it reacts clearly to threats against Harold Finch. Aside from that I can’t tell you anything else.”

They stood silently for a while, Q’s eyes distant. Bond was next to him, almost touching, and his own eyes scanned the area for any kind of threat. Around them people walked and jogged and talked on their cell phones, played with their children, their dogs, or just sat and read.

And there were cameras.

Watching.

He looked up into the one closest to them. A red light flared and he smiled humorlessly.

“It can’t see us, but it knows we are here,” Q said calmly. “I’m masking our presence. We’re known to it. We know about it.”

“Risk assessment,” the agent murmured.

“Yes.”

The agent fell silent, but the blue eyes were sharper, colder.

“So, hellhound,” he finally remarked, almost off-handedly.

Q shrugged. “Not as rare as it sounds, but rather special in its own way because they aren’t easy to find. The name is a bit of a misfit, actually. Nothing hellish about them and not really hounds.” He shot Bond a smirk. “Like you aren’t actually turning into a bird.”

“Too bad.”

“Right. Well, you were called a phoenix because you can resurrect. Hellhounds are fierce guardians and extremely loyal. Give them a duty to fulfill, they will do so until death. The line goes back a long way.”

“No one calls them cerberus, though.”

“No. Like I said, misnomer. Hellhounds can hide easily and some mistake them for werewolves. Since they are loners they don’t wander around to seek out a pack. I’m surprised he fit into a werewolf pack and ran with them so long. The wolves would have less of a problem with him; it’s the hound who might feel threatened.”

“He didn’t.”

“Until the day someone set him up to be killed.”

Bond shrugged with one shoulder. “Danger of the job”

Q shot him a look, but the Double-Oh didn’t elaborate.

“Hellhounds aren’t supernaturals. They can’t truly change shape, only certain aspects of their appearance.”

“His eyes,” Bond nodded.

“Yes. He can grow canines and claws, and his eyes can go all shades of red, orange or yellow. Some have silvery eyes. Those are usually older. Hellhounds have bursts of strength or speed, but aren’t as enduring in that regard as werewolves. They can beat a human any time, though.”

Bond looked thoughtful, probably rethinking his confrontation with Reese in the alley. The man could have killed him with his bare hands, or an arm tied behind his back, even without CIA black ops training.

“They aren’t truly preternatural either because of those physical changes, but all the books I’ve checked classify them as such. They’re also categorized as fire,” the quartermaster continued. “Like a phoenix. You’re a fire sign.”

“I didn’t know you were into astrology.”

He grimaced. “It has nothing to do with astrology, 007. All preternaturals and supernaturals have a basic... element, so to say. The phoenix is easy. Fire. Werewolves are earth. Hellhounds are fire, which isn’t fun when forced to run with earth.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to create my Chinese horoscope, Q.”

Q ignored the little jab. They walked into the hotel and he didn’t continue until they were alone on their floor.

“Fire especially needs to be grounded. The phoenix more than others because of your special ability. Hellhounds are caught between two worlds. They are like werewolves in some regards, wanting another person close, but unable to depend on a pack for balance. And like all fire-born ones they also seek independence.”

Bond was silent, eyes straying to his partner now and then. When the door closed after them, the phoenix looped an arm around Q’s waist and pulled him close, burying his face against the warm neck.

“Grounding,” he murmured when Q made a quizzical noise.

The quartermaster wrapped his arms around the older man. Bond kissed the exposed skin, delivering a little bite before pulling back. Q’s face reflected openness.

The next kiss was delivered to his lips. It wasn’t chaste or even probing. It was full of intention and promise.

Q let his partner lead, let the phoenix rise and take over, and he hummed in approval in the back of his throat when Bond was pushing him toward the master bedroom.

Yes, that intention was very clear.

And he didn’t mind at all.

 

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Setting up the trap had taken less than two hours. It hadn’t been unlike the time he had placed such bread crumbs for another wanted person. Silva. Back then he had carefully placed a lead for the former MI6 agent-turned-traitor to follow Bond to his old family lodge. Now he was leaving carefully worded hints for the werewolf killer to follow, leading them to a supposed ally and friend.

The waiting was the hardest part. Waiting for a response. Waiting for any kind of contact to be made.

Q spent it talking to Finch. He was getting to know the cipher little by little, though he knew he had yet to actually crack the core, find out who this man had been and what had happened to him. Finch had told him that yes, he was dead. He had died a few years ago on paper and no one knew he was still there, active, able to access the machine.

They talked about how he had found Reese, had offered him this second chance, had brought him back to life in so many ways. Q had been fascinated by how quickly their relationship had progressed, how Finch had commanded Reese’s loyalty without knowing what the man truly was.

“I knew he had been part of a pack,” Finch had told him. “I didn’t know what he was; only that he wasn’t a werewolf. He never showed what he was in the slightest. Mr. Reese has himself under tight control.”

“Now you know,” Q commented.

“It changes nothing.”

“Of course not. But you know his loyalty to you is absolute.”

There had been silence on the line. Finch knew; and it had touched him deeply. Q was sure of it.

He enjoyed their conversations. Finch was given a few tidbits about the quartermaster as well and he was very curious about the whole technopathic abilities. Knowing the man was a cipher had Q give him a few hints.

Felix Leiter called twice. Snow was getting more and more restless, was demanding to be allowed to hunt the killer, but the CIA was keeping him under control. The question was for how much longer. He was an alpha without a pack, a loner now, and he was seething with rage. His pack had been exterminated, aside from one hellhound who was MIA, and it was tearing him apart,

Bond explored New York, got to know the area they were planning to set the trap, as well as his temporary ‘territory’. Sometimes he was shadowed by Reese, sometimes they met up over a hot dog or coffee. They didn’t really talk much, but they still exchanged information in their own way.

Agents, Q thought. It was so typical.

 

 

It took almost forty-eight hours of patience for the first message to be left for Reese from an unknown source.

‘They deserved it’ was all that was left under an encrypted address.

Finch was impressed, as was Q, who had a direct comm. line open to the other man. Both were trying to discover where the message had come from.

“Internet café,” Finch finally said.

“They have cameras,” Q remarked.

He could almost imagine the smile on Finch’s face. “Already checking. I have the time stamp. It will take a while. Let’s answer our friend first.”

The exchange was slow, hours between each text. It gave both Finch and Q time to hunt for the mysterious killer, but whoever it was, he was good. The surveillance cameras at the internet café had been strategically placed, but one of the ten places was almost invisible. That had been the one the killer had used. There was no image.

It didn’t stop Bond from going to the café to have a look around, ask a few questions.

The man behind the register wasn’t sure who had used the computer. It had been a cash payment and since it had been around lunch time when he had relieved a colleague, he wasn’t sure who had been there already and who had paid him for the computer use.

“He’s good,” Q murmured.

“Agency,” Bond replied. “Definitely a former agent.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

Q didn’t ask for an explanation, simply passed on the information to Finch.

“I believe Mr. Bond is correct. I have received another message for Mr. Reese, this time from a disposable cell. It was already disposed of, of course.”

“What did it say?”

“It was a proposal to meet.”

Q raised his eyebrows. “Already? Well, I’m surprised.”

“The killer knows who Mr. Reese is, 007. He was part of the pack who has been eliminated one by one. Either the killer is getting to his next victim or he sees Reese as an ally because he is different from the werewolves.”

“I’ll run a check on Reese’s old acquaintances and colleagues. I might have missed something.” Q grimaced at that thought and he heard Bond chuckle.

“As if you would, Q,” he said with an affectionate note.

“Yes, very hard to believe, but it’s never a mistake to recheck everything.”

“You do that.”

And Q did.

In the meantime, Bond prowled through New York, doing whatever an agent did when he wasn’t busy hunting a mark.

 

* * *

 

The call came just as Q was done leaving an electronic trail that led to John Reese and would hopefully catch the attention of the killer.

“Agent Leiter, what can I do for you?” Q asked politely.

“Is Bond around?” Leiter asked without a greeting, sounding slightly stressed.

“He is currently in the field. I can patch you into the comm. line.”

“Thanks.”

Q did just that, informing his agent of the incoming call.

“Felix?” Bond asked.

“Snow has disappeared,” Leiter said without preamble.

“Disappeared?”

“He was with the White pack, in protective custody. Tom White, the alpha, said he was restless, angry, attack-happy, but he was keeping himself under control and didn’t shift. He was sometimes going head-to-head with White, but for a werewolf he was civil.”

“How could he disappear from a pack?” Q wanted to know.

Leiter sighed. “Wish I had an answer, Q. The pack tried to track him, but he’s good. Of course he is. He ran black ops and he knows how to mask his scent for others like him.”

“So he might be after the killer on his own?”

“Yes. Or the killer already got to him.”

Bond muttered something uncomplimentary about alpha wolves.

“Thank you, Felix,” he said out loud. “We’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope you won’t find a body.”

And with that the call ended.

“You there, Q?”

“Always,” Q answered easily.

“Ideas?”

“Concerning Snow? No. We should concentrate on our own plan right now. Should Snow intervene, we’ll deal with it.”

It was a plan as good as any.

“I’ll let Mr. Finch know,” Q continued. “Then we wait for the killer to hopefully contact Mr. Reese.”

“Any plans for dinner?” Bond asked casually.

The quartermaster chuckled. “Surprise me.”

Bond echoed the amusement.

 

 

He did surprise Q.

 

* * *

 

When the killer finally made the next move, things sped up.

Exponentially.

The trap was ready. They had a place, knew every corner, every nook and every cranny. Bond and Reese would take down the suspect, then the CIA would be called in. The NYPD wouldn’t be involved. While Reese trusted Carter and had another detective working for him, neither was equipped to deal with a werewolf killer. They suspected it was another werewolf and taking one of them down for good was almost impossible without help.

Reese was ready. He had exchanged a few messages with the pack killer, though still had no idea who it might be. The man knew him, that was clear. Some remarks had been personal, but not revealing.

What neither had expected was for their target to be completely aware of what they had planned. For James Bond was suddenly faced with a werewolf who had been expecting him, who had waylaid him, who kept him from reaching the target area.

Because their target was now the hunter.

“Shit!” Q whispered. “Finch!”

“John is already on his way.”

But he was at the meeting place, several blocks away.

 

 

The thing about chasing a werewolf down a dark alleyway was that they were fast. Very, very fast. The wolf was still humanoid in shape, but with claws, fangs and pointed ears, as well as a lot of hair growth.

Bond was darting after the shadowy thing that was barely more than a blip on his radar, gun out, breath hissing through his teeth. He was fit, in shape, more than ever now that the phoenix was out of the box and free to roam, but the supernatural had an advantage.

It was insane to watch the dark figure jump over fences and climb walls. The Double-Oh agent had a hard time keeping the wolf in his line of sight and something niggled in the back of his mind.

He skidded around a corner and was just fast enough to evade a handful of claws lashing out at him. Eyes glowed in the dark and he heard a vicious growl, then he was pushed back with enough force to bruise his ribs, and the werewolf was off and running once more.

Playing, he thought darkly. He was playing.

He aimed his gun and fired.

A yelp was the answer.

But the wolf still disappeared into the open doorway of a building.

Damn!

“White’s pack is still fifteen minutes from your position,” Q informed him, voice calm and even and very much his handler right now.

“Tell them to drive faster!” he hissed and slipped into the building, all senses on alert.

“Reese is closing in from the other side.”

He didn’t reply, eyes scanning for the werewolf.

The building must have been part of the railway once. There were old, rusted rails set into the concrete floor and the size and height of the building suggested it might have been a service station. Bond wasn’t sure since he had lost track of where exactly they were in the harbor area after the chase. Judging from the dust and the debris everywhere, it had been out of use for decades.

The light coming in from the outside was blurred and barely illuminating the floor. The windows were smeared, some broken.

He moved silently into the structure, hearing nothing but the muted sounds from outside, seeing no movement.

But the werewolf was here.

The phoenix was bristling with the knowledge of another predator close by, wanting to bury its claws in the other.

“Did you really think I would be so easy to trap?”

The voice was deceptively soft, clearly female, and it held a growl that spoke of the true nature of the woman now stepping out of the shadows.

“Bond pointed the gun at her, but Kara Stanton only smiled derisively. Her eyes turned a golden orange, her features shifting into a much more ferocious visage. Not fully wolf, no longer human either, but clearly supernatural. Her hands now featured long, sharp claws and her movements became more lithe. Her ears looked larger, more pointed, slightly swept back, and the teeth were longer. As she moved, her body flowed through the transformation like it was made of liquid instead of solid material.

Werewolves were able to shape-change, though not all managed a fully lupine form. Some were the hulking figure out of horror movies, stuck between two shapes, but still a very deadly and effective killing machine.

Stanton’s clothes were close to ripping.

“You look surprisingly good for a dead wolf, Agent Stanton,” Bond said conversationally.

“Fool,” she growled.

Yes, he had been a fool.

“It was a trap,” Q murmured in his ear, sounding impressed despite the fact that their own trap had become one for Bond.

“Did you think you would be a match for a werewolf?” she mocked.

Bond cocked an eyebrow.

“I can take you out with a swipe,” Stanton added, smiling viciously.

“Maybe. But now we know who to hunt.”

She chuckled. “So what? I did what I came to do. They paid for their sins.”

The ugly memories of Silva rose, of M’s death, of his taunts that she would pay for her sins.

“So you found Snow?”

She circled him and Bond followed her movements with sharp eyes. “He will get what he deserves.”

Stanton grinned widely, showing sharp teeth in a no longer human mouth. Her features had begun to shift further. She gestured toward a darker corner of the building and a light snapped on.

 _Nice party trick_ , Bond thought.

And there was Snow. Bound to a chair with ropes that must have been reinforced to hold a werewolf, but then again she might have drugged him. He looked barely conscious and the shallow wounds must have been much more painful, a lot deeper, before his healing abilities had kicked in.

Clearly drugs, he decided.

Werewolves were fast healers and Snow’s body shouldn’t have taken so long to close the last cuts. So it had to be drugs and who if not another werewolf of Stanton’s caliber would know better about what to use?

“Then your mission is over, Agent Stanton,” Bond stated.

“It will never be over.”

“Too bad.”

“Kara.”

She tensed and whirled around, her growl turning into a surprised rumble. “John.”

Reese stepped out of the shadows, gun in hand, face a mask. His eyes, silver-ringed, were filled with surprise.

“Why?” he only asked.

Stanton just laughed and it held a note Bond didn’t like. Not hysterical, not insane, just slightly out of touch with reality in a very bad and dangerous way.

“You know why!” she spat.

And just how dangerous she was, how close she was teetering on the edge of an abyss, showed when, without warning, she lashed out at Bond, claws swiping over his chest and drawing blood.

Her speed was insane and he didn’t have a chance. No human stood a chance against a werewolf, not even a preternatural like the phoenix.

Bond fired his gun, hitting her left shoulder, but like all werewolves she had a very high threshold for pain, one surpassing even his own, and she healed very, very fast. The bullet didn’t even stop her, like the deep claw marks across his chest didn’t bother Bond either.

Much.

For now.

Still, the fight was short.

He was a very good fighter. He had trained relentlessly for all his life, was in perfect shape, was at a level that other Double-Ohs might never reach because of his preternatural status.

But Kara Stanton was a werewolf and they were killing machines.

James had let Reese win, more or less, in their first confrontation. It had been the plan to lure him out, to get him close, and he had tested the waters.

Stanton wasn’t Reese.

For one, she was a lot more insane. Actually, she was very far gone.

Bond doubled over when she kicked him in the ribs, probably breaking a few, then Stanton buried her claws in his body again, this time drawing more than superficial wounds.

Her bared teeth were in his face. Her fingers curled in the deep wounds, digging even deeper grooves into his flesh, and he might have screamed.

Bond wasn’t sure of anything any more.

He had no time to do more than gasp, then his world shrunk down and he crashed to the floor.

Reese hadn’t intervened. Wise decision. Maybe the plan hadn’t been for Bond to die, but he had set himself up as bait in a way. She considered him human. An easy kill.

And he was.

Resurrection was going to be a bitch.

She was there, perched over him, talons easily sliding into his soft neck and throat, tearing apart vital tissue.

Blood pooled around him.

Glowing eyes stared at him out of a blood-spattered face.

Stanton bared long fangs and snarled.

“Fool.”

Then there was nothing.

 

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

Q knew the precise moment Bond died and it was like a shard of his soul had been frozen. He felt the darkness of the phoenix rise, felt it screech in indignation, and he knew his partner would revive without a problem, but right now he was out of the game.

It was up to Reese to finish this, unless the other pack got there first. Q had done what needed to be done, had informed the White pack that they had found Kara Stanton, who was the killer. They would try to take her down and keep her alive to face justice, but they were at least fifteen minutes away.

Fifteen minutes were a long time to be facing a werewolf, let alone one as insane as Stanton.

“Bond is down,” he told White evenly.

What he got was an angry growl. The alpha was already running at top speed, his pack with him.

“Q.”

He briefly closed his eyes when Finch addressed him.

“He’s a phoenix, Mr. Finch,” was all he said, sounding almost carelessly dismissive.

Which he wasn’t.

James’ death wasn’t a casual occurrence. He knew it would take strength and energy for his partner to come back, and the phoenix always wanted its pound of flesh..

“The bite…” Finch said softly.

“Doesn’t matter.”

There was silence.

Those bitten usually only had an infection, maybe a fever and a few days of feeling unwell. They didn’t turn. If someone who was bitten by a werewolf actually turned into one it was because they were preternaturals who accepted the infection and took the last step.

It was rare.

It was almost unheard of and the only preternatural Q could think of as maybe turning into a werewolf was actually a hellhound.

Not a phoenix.

Bond would be fine; the moment he came back from being dead, that was.

“If you are certain,” Finch finally said.

“I am.”

Q continued to listen in to what was happening between Stanton and Reese, and he was sure so did Finch. Mostly to Reese’s side of the confrontation, something Q was hearing crystal clear through the comm. lines. And it was an eye-opener.

 

*

 

“He set us up, John!” Stanton spat, gesturing at the alpha with bloodied fingers. “Us! His own pack!”

Reese glanced at the man who had been his alpha once. Then his eyes flitted to the still form of Bond. There was no sign of life. Blood had pooled under him.

“He was our alpha! We trusted him! I trusted him!”

Her claws were out, her form still dominantly werewolf and less human. The long canines glinted and Reese had felt a sliver of alarm when she had licked her lips, tasting Bond’s blood. Werewolves were predators, but they didn’t hunt humans and killed them for food. Those were wild stories and stemmed out of the Dark Ages. Like all creatures they would fight to stay alive, and feral ones, those mad with illness or pain, would attack a threat, but they weren’t mindless killing machines.

“Alphas don’t kill their own pack, Kara,” Reese said calmly.

“Then why did he order us to kill one another?” she challenged, eyes gleaming yellow with fury. “I was told you had been compromised. I shot you! And you had the same orders!”

He was silent. It was the truth and he had wondered so much in the past two years, the lines of truth and lies blurring.

“It was Corwin,” Stanton went on. “She controlled the pack. She controlled him. He had rolled on his back for her! For a human! The bitch had him collared and leashed and he betrayed us in the worst way!”

Her fury strengthened.

“And she told him to kill his own second and another pack member! He betrayed us! He betrayed me, John!”

Reese nodded slowly. His own death he could have understood. He had never been true pack, no matter what Kara had told him. But to kill a beta of her rank? That had been beyond impossible.

Packs didn’t kill their own members like that. Especially not when ordered by an outsider. Corwin might have been their handler, but she hadn’t been pack.

“You killed your own,” he reminded her calmly.

“They let it happen!” she screamed. “They knew and they let it happen, John!”

“Are you sure they did?”

She sneered, but she didn’t answer.

“And now you kill Snow and then what? Become a lone wolf?”

“I’ve been alone ever since Ordos! Do you know how long it took me to pull myself together? Months! The bullet wound was minor compared to the second and third degree burns and the never-ending pain of nerve cells reviving one by one! But I survived!”

::I believe something didn’t survive, Mr. Reese:: Finch said softly, sounding shaken. ::Such a long healing process after a traumatic event, a near-death, and the knowledge it had been an ordered hit by her own pack’s alpha, must have flipped a switch in her. She might be physically healed, but her mind never recovered::

“You know it won’t end here,” Reese said evenly.

She laughed and it sounded almost broken. “It will never end. Betrayal never ends. They sent us there to die, John. To die!”

“And we survived. We came back.”

He had survived, yes, but he had only come back and learned to live when Finch had found him. Like a werewolf, Reese needed company, he needed something to do, he needed to be… needed, useful, part of something. Finch had made it happen. He had become his handler, then his friend, and finally almost pack, despite the fact that a) Finch wasn’t even a supernatural creature and b) two people didn’t make a pack.

Oh, and Reese wasn’t a werewolf.

But he had meaning again, a job to do, people to help and protect. He had guidance in his life, even if it wasn’t from an alpha werewolf.

“It. Will. Never. End!” she screamed.

Reese stared at her, shocked in a way he had never felt before. He didn’t show it, aside from maybe a shifting expression in his eyes, his mask firmly in place, but Kara’s words tore into him.

“Where will you stop?” he asked, voice still soft and low.

She could hear him perfectly. Like him she had perfect hearing. It was one reason why his voice was always a little lower, a little softer. The pack had never needed raised voices.

“I’ll stop when everyone involved in my murder is dead!”

He frowned. “How can you know how deep it went?”

Her smile was terrible. “A little torture goes a long way.”

Insane. She had gone over the edge. It was clear now.

“You can’t take on the whole CIA and win, Kara.”

“Watch me!” was the furious snarl. “Corwin is already dead. As is the pack. But there are more! And they were into something else, too, John. They used us, they sent us on a wild goose chase, they got involved in matters beyond what we were running, and then they simply wanted to erase our existences! Ordos was way more than it seemed! We were conveniently led there to be part of a cleansing operation that had already been set into motion.”

She angrily gestured at Snow.

“He knew about what they had planned with us. And the bitch Corwin had her sticky fingers in a lot more.” Her smile grew terrible. “I had a chat with her supervisor. Mr. Denton Weeks was very cooperative when we finally set aside our different opinions about what he could tell me and what not.”

He frowned mildly, aware what she was telling him between the lines. Either Weeks was very dead or would be dead from his wounds soon.

“You know that secrets birth secrets. It’s our life.”

“And our death, too? Because Corwin said so? Why us, John? Did you ever wonder?”

“No.”

And he hadn’t. Operatives were declared rogue or risks sometimes. Maybe because of something he had witnessed without realizing what it was. Maybe because he had been made on a previous assignment. Maybe because he had outlived his usefulness.

Kara suddenly stiffened, her features twisting further.

“A pack… You brought… a pack?”

“You brought them. They are hunting you.”

Her skin was darker, her face a terrifying visage of wolf and human, with a snout and fur and pointed ears. Her fingers were longer, ending in sharp talon-like claws. Her feet had torn apart her shoes and part of her jeans. She was now barely human, simply humanoid, and her body went through the final shifts just as White and his pack stormed the building.

Kara roared a challenge that echoed in the cavernous building.

Reese blended in with the shadows, though he had no doubt about the pack’s ability to scent him, or even see him, but right now they were busy trying to control Stanton, though that proved to be impossible.

“Kara Stanton,” White called, gun drawn and still looking very human. “I give you one chance.”

She roared again.

The alpha’s eyes started to glow and his pack was moving around her, cutting her off, trying to cage her in. Some had already shifted, others were still mostly human in appearance.

“She won’t go down without a fight,” Reese whispered, certain that White and every other werewolf could hear him. “This is her last stand.”

And it was.

The fight was vicious, bloody, and Reese knew there was only one outcome.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said softly in his ear. “I believe it is time for you to leave.”

He knew it was. Stanton screeched in pain and fury, already a bloody mess and still fighting. She was taking chunks out of the pack, but she was going down.

Slowly.

Bite by bite.

Knocking out two of the pack, injuring two more gravely. She was a ferocious fighter, burning with the need for vengeance, way past sanity, and drawing on everything she had been taught, everything she was.

Reese knew she would have one day made a perfect alpha.

Now it was the alpha who finally ended it, tearing her throat out and leaving the body in a pool of blood and dust. Werewolves were hard to kill, but this would do it. And if the CIA handled it by the book, and they would, her body would be burned to ash.

The hellhound inside him didn’t even whimper. He felt no loyalty towards her any more, despite their shared past, despite what else they might have shared. She had betrayed him and the pack. His loyalty was solely to Harold Finch and Reese took his new assignment very seriously.

Kara had been insane; a threat. A lethal weapon without a safety anymore.

John looked at his former handler, a former colleague, someone he had respected. He had never been true pack, but she had also never called him an outsider. Still, she had been his mark and he had done what his kind did: protect and kill.

Maybe they had been sent to Ordos to die. Maybe it had been fate that they had both come out alive. But it had been pure luck that he had found a new life, a new sanity, a new purpose. Kara Stanton had held on to her vengeance and rage, her need for revenge.

It had killed her in the end.

With a last look at the bloody, torn body, Reese walked over to the motionless MI6 agent. He didn’t need to check for a pulse.

There was none.

The torn out throat and the incredibly large blood stain spoke lengths.

“Q,” he said softly, aware that Bond’s partner was listening in. “He is dead.”

There was a noise that sounded almost like a put-upon sigh. “Yes, he has a tendency to do that.”

Reese raised an eyebrow. “He has a tendency?” he quoted.

“It would be best if we could get 007 somewhere he can recover.”

“You want me to bring him back to the hotel, Q?”

“No need to be snippy, Mr. Reese,” was the haughty reply and Reese chuckled.

Yes, he liked the guy.

“I could recommend a place,” Finch commented.

White approached and Reese tensed. Tom White was as tall as him, muscular, maybe a few years younger, but his eyes looked older than what his passport told. Werewolves grew up fast. Their nature, the pack dynamics, the whole ranking, had them slide into a family at an early age, taking on responsibilities according to rank.

This man was an alpha, a leader, someone who had a whole pack in this building and who worked for the CIA. He probably knew who Reese was and if he didn’t, he would soon.

Green eyes, flecked with the remnants of the wolf that had taken down Kara, looked at him. Appraising. Judging. Taking in his danger level.

Werewolves aged the same as any other human being. They weren’t particularly long-living, though they could get older than the average human. Or they died young; mostly violently. At least those working for any kind of agency.

“Never saw you,” the alpha broke the silence.

Reese raised an eyebrow, unable to contain his surprise.

The werewolf smiled. “We’ll take care of this, Reese. I don’t know what happened to you back then, but I know what you’re doing now.”

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said, sounding shaky.

He ignored him.

“What about Snow?”

White glanced at the barely conscious man. Two of his pack were doing their best to help, but he would need an ambulance. That had already been called and was on its way.

“What about him?”

Reese nodded. “Thank you, Agent White.”

He smiled humorlessly. “You found the pack killer, Reese. We should thank you. As for Bond…”

“That’s complicated,” Reese said softly.

“He’s dead. Nothing complicated about it.”

“It is. Because he isn’t.” John gave the stunned looking alpha a quick smile.

White glanced at the body, then looked back at Reese. “He’s not one of us.”

“Just like I never was.”

“But he’s more like us than others?” The alpha smirked knowingly.

“Yes.”

“Well, get him out of here then. I’ll handle the rest.” White held out his hand. Reese shook it. “I’d be proud to call you one of mine, Reese. As it is, I’m glad you’re alive.”

The preternatural inside him rumbled, drawn between pride and disgust. He would never be a werewolf and he would never truly belong to a pack, but to be offered from an alpha…

He had a job, though. He had a partner, someone he would protect with his life, someone he trusted, someone who trusted him. Reese was loyal to Finch and he wouldn’t be swayed from his side for whatever reason. Not even if the CIA cleared his file, offered him back his old life, would he change a single thing about what he was doing right now.

Harold Finch was who he protected. That was his new life. It was what he had chosen for himself.

White tilted his head, nostrils flaring, and there was a slight glow to his eyes. A smile crossed his lips.

“I see.”

Reese frowned, tensing a little. Yes, werewolves had an enhanced sense of smell. He did, too, though he had never been as good as some of the pack. He had trained with them, but since he wasn’t a werewolf, things had been a bit more complicated in that regard.

“You have chosen your new life. One closer to your nature. Good luck, Reese.”

And then he walked back to where his team was busy wrapping up the last loose ends before the police arrived.

Reese just stood there, slightly stunned, then tore himself out of his stupor. He picked up Bond’s body and carried him to the car he had used to get here. He dumped the dead man in his trunk.

“Finch,” he said softly as he snapped the lid shut.

“I’m here, Mr. Reese. I’m calling in a favor. Q has informed me of Mr. Bond’s needs.”

That was all he needed to know.

The car drove away with its currently dead cargo, heading for the address Finch gave him.

 

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

He came back to life, the phoenix roaring a challenge as it rose from the dead. It lashed out, snarled and screeched, and he felt his lungs fill with air, expand, muscles filling with blood, and the pain had him expel that air in a gasp.

Eyes the pale blue color of the eternal ice opened, staring at a light gray ceiling. Fingers curled into the sheets of the bed he lay on.

There was movement.

He tracked it with all senses.

“James.”

Recognition.

Hyper-awareness of his partner and mate. It was like a conduit of energy was suddenly open between them, heat and fire and something even stronger coursing through the battered form of the resurrected preternatural.

“James.”

His name, repeated.

The phoenix quieted down almost immediately, rumbling, still high-strung and lusting for a kill, but now somewhat enthralled by the voice.

“Q.”

His own voice sounded rusty, gritty, painful. Like his throat had been slashed and just healed together.

He blinked.

Oh. Right. That had happened.

Q looked a bit disheveled. Younger than his years, the glasses hiding nothing of the relief that rushed through him, and the smile was open and warm.

“Welcome back, 007.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere very safe. Mr. Finch arranged for it. And no, you’re not leaving.”

Damn.

He flexed his fingers again, felt bearable pain there, and attempted to sit up. More pain introduced itself immediately and he fell back with a gasp. The darkness rose, wanted to push forward, furious at the injuries and his weakness.

“How long was I out?”

Q smiled dimly. “Four hours for the rebirth, ten hours of natural sleep. But you will be down for the count for a while.”

Q met the pale blue eyes, his own dark and filled with emotions he would never put into words, and his even voice was caressing the wounded soul. The exhaustion of resurrection was already pulling him under. With his partner here, the phoenix didn’t fight it. He knew he needed to rest, needed to recover.

 

* * *

 

Harold Finch limped into the living room of the safe house where Q sat on the couch, a laptop with him. He was talking to his CIA liaison, Felix Leiter. The call had come in a few minutes ago and Finch had been very much aware of it.

Actually, he had hacked into it, listening in. And he knew that Q was aware of it, too.

“Well, too bad it ended like this,” Leiter said, sounding a bit exhausted. “We would have preferred to keep Stanton alive.”

“White’s pack did what they had to do.”

It got Q a chuckle. “No argument from me. I read the reports. I talked to White. She was completely off the rocker; insane. She killed a whole pack, picking them off one by one.”

“How is Agent Snow?”

A sigh. “Recovering. She did a number on him. Werewolves are hard to take down, but she knew what she was doing, of course. She was his second-in-command and she had the time to inflict some cruel damage. Agent Snow is currently off the active list and it looks like he will stay that way.”

Q pursed his lips.

“His own decision,” Leiter added as if reading his mind. “This shook him pretty badly, especially since it was an inside job. He lost his whole pack. I’m no werewolf or an expert, Q, but I know it hits an alpha the hardest.”

“Maybe she never truly planned to kill him. Losing his pack wasn’t unlike death itself.”

“Maybe. Whatever her final plans were for him, she achieved something in the end. White talked to him, alpha to alpha. We also had a psychologist flown in who specializes on werewolves. Not sure it’ll get us anywhere. White’s doubtful.”

“He might end up a loner,” Q mused.

“Most likely. White offered to let him stay part of his pack, but Snow’s an old alpha, a very strong one, he wouldn’t be able to submit to another to function within the pack. And werewolves don’t work with alpha pairs.”

“Too bad. I read his file. He was a very good agent.”

“True,” Leiter answered. “Well, it was nice working with you. Tell James I’m looking forward to the next time.”

“I will. Good day, Agent Leiter.”

The call ended and Q looked up. Finch was struck by his youth again, though the quartermaster of MI6 was older than he looked. The usually alert and sharp eyes reflected exhaustion and there were dark smudges beneath them, looking almost like bruises on his fair skin. Q hadn’t slept a lot, had been logged into the network for the whole of the mission, and Finch had found out that the connection the technopath had with the phoenix ran a lot deeper than handler and agent.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Finch,” he said, voice still smooth and very British.

He was putting up a good front.

“You should get some rest, Q. I know you worry about your agent, but I promise you that the two of you are perfectly safe here.”

Q smiled a little. “I know we are, Mr. Finch.”

“And your partner is healing all on his own. I suspect his recovery rate is faster than a human’s?”

“Yes.” Q tilted his head a little. “Like Mr. Reese’s?”

Finch chuckled. “He has the same penchant for getting into harm’s way, but yes, he heals fast.”

Like after getting two bullets into his body. It had been amazing to watch, amazing to see how the body knitted back together within such a short time. Reese had a high threshold for pain, but even that wouldn’t have helped them in some situations. The healing factor did.

“I have to warn you that 007 has a tendency to vacate the premises and hole up where he feels safe the moment he can walk.”

“I know the type, Mr. Whittmore.”

Q closed the laptop. “I hope we’re not keeping you from anything.”

Finch smiled. “Not at all.”

The two men looked at each other, both aware that they were so much alike, had so much in common, right down to handling two agents who were more than a handful and always putting themselves into harm’s way.

“I believe I will take a nap,” the quartermaster finally said.

“A very good idea.”

 

*

 

He hadn’t been able to sleep. The bed, while not as posh as a hotel bed, was nice and comfortable. The sheets were clean and fresh, and it was next to Bond’s room.

Q lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, his mind running on and on with recaps of what had happened.

Especially when James had died.

He had felt it in a way. Not like dying himself – and he really had no experience in that department, thank you very much. It had been this sharp tug, losing part of himself, the darkness flailing and latching on to him. It had been the phoenix coming to life while dying, dragging Q along while also letting go, and for a single moment he had faced the predator.

Looking at the monster without a human soul to keep it civil.

Q hadn’t been afraid. He had faced it before, though while Bond was still breathing, and he had faced it now. It had studied him like prey and then decided he wasn’t.

A second.

Just a single second between them.

Then the sensation had passed. The phoenix had curled up and waited for the magic to happen, for the body to follow the soul’s command.

Even now Q could feel that piece quite acutely. Bond was in the room next to his and he had the feeling like they were sharing the same room. No walls between them. It was like a dark presence lurking in his mind, this heat that wasn’t really warm, this fire that was sometimes more like ice.

The phoenix was active, was the part of Bond that enabled his recovery. It was soaking through every cell of his body, making him more, making him a volatile creature at the moment, one prone to crawling into his own, chosen corner to lick his wounds. And he might be a bit more… possessive of Q for a few hours or days.

Q sat up with a sigh.

He was the phoenix’s balance. He was the partner, its mate, Bond’s. And the pull was intense. More than before. More than before… Q had been shot by Leslie Collins and had nearly died. It had been like a turning point for them, for the connection.

He felt more.

He experienced more.

He needed… needed a lot more. It was a hunger unlike the phoenix’s, but hunger nonetheless.

His body felt like a live wire, energy coursing through him, thrumming through his mind, making him want, need, hunger. It wasn’t the boiling mass of darkness that was Bond, that was the phoenix, but it was equally powerful and it was what kept the other preternatural so balanced.

It was useless. He knew he wouldn’t get any sleep in here, separated, unable to touch, to see, to talk to his partner when Bond woke again.

So he slipped on his shoes and left the room.

 

 

Q allowed himself the luxury of just looking at the man on the bed for a second. Look, no touch. Soak in the muscular form of his agent, the man he handled and who he was bonded to. The man who was his anchor and meant more to the technopath than he could ever explain to anyone not in his position.

Only about five people in this world might get what James Bond truly was to Q. If they were still sane enough to understand it.

Bond was reasonably held together by stitches and bandages. There was a rather deep cut running along his left collar bone, the staples ugly and crude. More cuts, all claw marks, were all over Bond’s chest. His throat had looked perforated and it had been a mess. Right now it was swathed in bandages. It had been a miracle the man had already been able to talk. The doctor, whose name Q didn’t know, and hadn’t asked, had done a great job.

Q had calculated that rebirth should have taken about half a day.

James had managed it in mere hours.

It was something that puzzled and mildly alarmed him. It was something his hyper brain was already turning over and over, looking into and analyzing, and the vague notion as to what it meant terrified him in a way.

Of course Bond was awake. He had opened his eyes the very moment the younger man had walked inside, like beacons in the night, holding Q’s eyes and drawing him closer without ever saying a word or even making a beckoning gesture. If asked to put the sensation into words, Q would have been hard pressed to find the appropriate ones. Static in his head, the hum of a live wire, the roar of something indescribably.

He only felt it when Bond resurrected.

When the phoenix was at its most uncontrollable and wild stage.

Walking to the preternatural’s side, Q held the sharp eyes as they narrowed, taking in the quartermaster’s tense body, the pale skin, the shadows under his eyes. Q knew he looked as bad as he felt right now. He hadn’t slept at all and staying on-line all the time had stressed his brain.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

Bond’s lips twisted into a caricature of a smile. “I’ve used that line too often for you to make it believable.”

His voice still sounded completely off. Too rough, like it should hurt with every syllable, like he was chewing glass and spitting nails. According to the nameless doctor, Bond’s throat had been a complete mess. That he was healing this was… quite new, he thought. So new that it was another puzzle piece he needed to figure out.

“And you see how exasperating that is.”

Another smile. James looked as tired as Q, though in his case it was coupled with the stress of a resurrection. Looking into those impossibly colored eyes, Q saw the hunger in there. It was suppressed, Bond trying not to overwhelm him, and it touched something within the technopath. The phoenix needed him, but it was also so very much aware that Q had reached his limits a long time ago. Catering to the hunger would deplete Q further, but Bond needed him.

And Q needed him in turn.

“I am fine, Bond. You, on the other hand, have seen better days,” he teased.

“And worse. This is nothing.”

“Our definitions of ‘nothing’ differ greatly.”

“Maybe.” Bond gave him a small smile, that crinkle of his lips.

Q’s exasperation showed because Bond’s smile widened.

Bastard!

His agent held out one hand. Bruised, scraped, cut, with a bandage covering the worst. 

“Q,” he said softly, cajoling.

Q took it, immediately feeling some of the tension lift. The skin-to-skin contact was like balm to his aching soul and he closed his eyes with a soft, involuntary sigh.

“Stay,” Bond murmured.

He opened his eyes and looked at the other man.

“Stay,” the Double-Oh repeated and tugged at his hand.

“Bond…”

“Q.”

“I…”

“You can.”

Yes, he could. They were safe here. He had trusted Finch with finding a doctor who could keep his mouth shut. He had trusted him with this safehouse. The security network was state-of-the-art and Q had been inside for hours, running his own security checks, stress tests, and even an outside attack scenario. Nothing had given. Like expected.

“I can,” he murmured, almost as if it was a surprise to him, too.

And he did.

The bed was wide enough for both of them and Bond, ignoring all his injuries and the pain he had to be feeling, pulled him close. Q tried not to put too much weight on him.

Bond pressed his lips against his temple, chasing away the lingering pain.

“Good?”

Q smiled, already feeling the exhaustion take over. “Yes.”

The phoenix spread its black wings, like a liquid, silky blanket covering his mind and soul. He let go of everything, let himself fall, trusting Bond not to overwhelm him.

The agent only pulled him closer, urging him to wrap his arm around the older man’s waist, and Q buried his face against the bandaged chest. Bond’s fingers were in his hair, carding through the long strands.

He fell asleep not much later, feeling completely safe.

 

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

Reese had prowled around the library, lounged in the computer room, generally not leaving Finch alone for any longer than maybe a bathroom break or to get food.

“How are our guests?” Reese asked as he placed a cup of tea in front of Finch.

“Recovering quickly. It’s amazing.”

“Watching, Harold?” he teased, voice quiet, with a predatory edge.

Finch smiled. “There are no cameras at the safehouse, aside from the one above the porch. I wouldn’t try to look in on a technopath, Mr. Reese. Q can easily find whatever I might have left and switch it off. Or worse. I talked to him an hour ago. Mr. Bond is alive, awake, healing well, and so is his partner.”

Reese raised an eyebrow at how Finch had worded it.

“Oh please,” the billionaire said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice their closeness. Q needs an anchor to function as a technopath and 007 is that anchor. As for the phoenix, I’ve done some research and Q is most likely psychically bonded to the MI6 agent. A phoenix is a terrifying, dark and horrifying creature, John. It consumes itself every time the resurrection tears it apart. A phoenix needs someone to pull it back. Q is that someone.”

Reese leaned against the edge of the computer table. “He’s a lot more, Harold.”

Finch gave him a neutral look.

“I might not be a werewolf, but I can smell them on each other when I’m close enough.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “I see.”

That explained a few things. Not that it was any of his concern. But knowing that they anchored and balanced each other, maybe it had been the natural development of this bond.

Reese smirked, then pushed away, brushing past the other man. Closer than he had to. There was a ring of silver around his blue eyes, something that had happened before now and then, but Finch had never been able to tell what connected the events. It had tipped him off to the preternatural in his partner, but never to the true nature. Werewolves didn’t get silver-ringed eyes, in any state of shift, and Finch had never researched too deeply.

It had been like an act of respect, the refusal to dig deeper than he already had.

Maybe he should have been more attentive, considering when those shifts in the blue eyes had happened. Maybe it would have given him a clue-by-four.

Fingers that had killed and maimed brushed over his back, barely even there, but he was hyper-aware of the contact. The contact was almost playful, laced with a danger inherent in Reese’s nature.

He tensed for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

Reese just smiled some more and went to one of the bookshelves to pick out a book he had started reading.

Finch stared at his computer screen, not seeing anything. But he felt more. He felt incredibly conflicted.

Something was happening and it was spiraling out of control. It had been launched by Q and Bond, by resolving an issue of Reese’s past, by the revelation of what the other man truly was.

Out in the open.

And Finch had never been good with opening up.

 

* * *

 

Q spent most of his time in the safehouse with his laptop to keep track of what the CIA was doing with Snow and to monitor what they might know about the involvement of Bond and Reese in the case. Leiter was doing his job as a liaison and downplaying the MI6’s involvement. White had made good on his promise and Reese didn’t appear in any reports.

He had talked to M several times, told his boss about developments, what had happened, and that he and Bond would need a few more days until the phoenix was mobile enough to fly home. Bond would have flown with a gut shot wound and half a leg, if the decision would have been up to him, but Q wouldn’t risk it.

M agreed.

And Mallory approved that at least one of the two men was thinking logically, not through a primal instinct.

“Take all the time you need. And good job, Q.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Q also kept close eyes on his recovering agent.

Now that Bond had revived, he would most likely try to be a hero, get up and show everyone he was a tough guy, and Q was there to keep him from falling flat on his face doing so.

 

 

Bond had, of course, tried to prove he was perfectly capable of moving about after being killed by a werewolf.

Well, not just killed, eviscerated. His throat torn out. Three quarters of his blood all over the ground.

It was simply the fact that he was still too weak and couldn’t even make it out of the bed that had Q manage to keep him in it.

“Give yourself another day, James,” the quartermaster said in a calm, soft tone.

Reasonable.

His handler voice.

Slender fingers caressed the stubbled face as he held the burning eyes. Pale blue, filled with the rage of the phoenix at the continued weakness in his body, reflecting so much pain it would have any other man writhing and begging for morphine.

But Bond had a very high pain threshold.

“One day. I’ll take you wherever you want then. You can’t walk and I can hardly carry you.”

The truth and nothing but, even if Bond was healing so much faster than in the past; even though he was at a stage he shouldn’t have achieved under a week.

The caress never stopped and the intense eyes slid shut again. Q placed a light hand on the other man’s chest, felt the reassuring beat of his heart, and he closed his own eyes with a soft exhalation.

Damn.

 

* * *

 

It had started to snow again. Soft flakes that melted when they hit the streets but stayed on the plants and cars and the houses. It wasn’t really bad weather; it was nice as long as one could stay inside.

A day had passed since the resurrection and James Bond had finally been able to get out of bed and not fall flat on his face. Or end up on the floor. It had been a close call, but he had stubbornly left the bedroom and walked into the living room.

Q had watched him, without interfering, his face reflecting a scowl mixed with exasperation. It was a normal expression when it came to his partner.

“I’m not going to pick you up off the floor and drag your sorry arse back to bed,” he muttered.

Bond’s expression was teasing. “I thought you liked my arse.”

That had only deepened the scowl.

James was healing nicely, though just because he was on his own two feet didn’t mean anything. The man was hard to keep down without restraints and Q wouldn’t really go there. Even if James had teased him about it and the endless possibilities.

Nightmare. Yes, the man was a nightmare. Not just the preternatural he was, the whole man.

“You think his partner is his anchor as well?” Bond asked quietly, his voice still rougher than normal, but considering the alternative – death because of a ripped-out throat – it was an improvement.

They sat together on the rather comfortable couch that was part of a very comfortable living room. The windows showed the ocean. The safehouse was outside New York in a summer house area that was currently completely deserted for obvious reasons. February just wasn’t the time to spend here at the beach, though Q found the waves crashing against the shore, the cold wind biting into his skin and the leaden sky somewhat fascinating. It was a nice change to the hustle and bustle of New York, or the crowded beaches of summer.

The snow just added to it.

Q shrugged. “Possible, though a cipher doesn’t need an anchor, more of a connector, and hellhounds are far more likely to flip and turn violent than a werewolf. I think if Stanton had threatened Finch, Reese would have torn her to pieces.”

Bond shot him a quizzical look. Q returned it with a half-smile.

“Like I said before, hellhounds aren’t really pack animals How he worked with werewolves is beyond me. But they do choose partners and they are incredibly protective. Get his loyalty and you have it for life. Reese doesn’t need a soul anchor, he needs a different kind of stability, one that comes with trust. As for Finch, I believe he needs Reese for a different reason, one that is probably very much part of his past.”

“You couldn’t find him,” Bond stated.

Q smiled. “No. His earliest listing is as a Harold Wren, attending MIT. But he didn’t exist before that. The name is fake, as is his whole life as Mr. Wren. Whoever he really is, whoever he was before whatever happened to him did happen, he erased that person a long time ago.” He looked thoughtful. “I wonder if he even knows who he is anymore.”

“I wonder if Reese knows.”

Q shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

Like it didn’t matter to Bond who Q was, what his birth name was. He had never asked. Q was Q. A name didn’t change what he meant to the phoenix. A name was a human thing; the phoenix was a primal monster that operated with very basic ideas on what it accepted, what it was ready to kill, and what it needed to survive.

The connection told everything, was everywhere, would let it recognize Q whatever he looked like, no matter what he called himself.

Of course, knowing Bond, he already knew everything there was to know about his quartermaster. Q wouldn’t put it past him to have found his personnel file, or discovered it through various channels, but he actually couldn’t care less.

Bond leaned over and brushed his lips over Q’s temple, then snaked an arm around the narrow waist and pulled the younger man closer.

Q let himself slide into the embrace. He turned his head and met the slightly chapped lips, nipping playfully. He knew his Double-Oh wasn’t up to anything strenuous right now, but sometimes all it needed was physical closeness. And after what had happened, after dying, the phoenix needed at least that. Of course, knowing the creature’s dark nature, the possessive need and hunger would come the moment the physical limitations were no more. It was a vicious circle, this hunger for reaffirmation of life, the sex, the heat curled inside the ice blue eyes that nothing could truly tame.

In the past Bond had found willing bed partners, fuck buddies, sex for money, to sate those needs. It hadn’t stopped the decline, the ever-present danger of consuming himself in the end closing in. He had been so close just after Moneypenny had accidentally shot him in Turkey.

One more death and he would have been adrift.

He had pulled himself back for M, with an effort Q knew was beyond human. One more mission, one more kill, and then oblivion.

He pushed Bond back a little and lightly straddled his lap, looking into the tired face that reflected the ordeal of the resurrection, the pain still present, the need to heal. Q leaned down and kissed him again, feeling broad hands on his lower back, sliding up his spine, over his sides, just touching and needing to feel.

The technopath knew that he had pulled Bond back from the edge of the abyss. He knew he had made him live, had set him free, had removed the chains around the preternatural, and he gladly did what was needed to keep him balanced. Because James gave him everything in return. He was everything.

Now those hands were underneath his sweater, underneath his t-shirt, finding warm skin. Q rested his forehead against Bond’s, smiling as the exploring fingers drew mindless patterns on his back.

“Q,” the phoenix murmured.

“007.”

It got him that small smile, that absolutely private, knowing smile. It wasn’t a game, an act or fake in way.

Q wanted to say the words, but they were stuck in his throat. So inappropriate. So impossible for them. So untrue of what he really felt.

There were no words for it.

Instead he settled in for trading kisses and touches, listening to the noises his partner made, the soft sounds of approval and need.

 

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

They had met in another public place. It was their last day in New York. Their flight was leaving tonight. Q wasn’t looking forward to flying, but he was looking forward to going home.

Bond had healed nicely, though he still featured spectacular bruises, scars that had yet to fade, and Q knew only the pain and discomfort had kept the phoenix from claiming Q and reassuring itself of the more intimate connection.

Finch already had a soda in front of him and Q ordered tea. He looked around the coffee shop and he saw no trace of John Reese, but he suspected the hellhound was close by.

“I have to say I enjoyed working with you, Mr. Whittmore,” Finch said pleasantly.

Q smiled a little. “So did I. Your help was greatly appreciated. I’m not sure we would have been able to find Stanton before she killed Snow and maybe even gone after others.”

“That she might have.” Finch was silent for a moment. “What are you going to do about… us?”

Q sipped at his tea. “Nothing.”

Finch gazed at him.

“Your involvement in this was… not report-worthy, Mr. Finch. Agent Leiter agreed. My partner agreed. Neither you nor Mr. Reese were ever a part of it.”

“I’m surprised,” the cipher said slowly, clearly stunned.

Q took another sip. “Both Bond and I can keep a secret. I’m sure you can, too.”

“About a fully functional technopath and something as preternaturally rare as a phoenix? I’m sure we can.”

The quartermaster smiled. “I might be overstepping boundaries, Mr. Finch, but since we worked together… and briefly against each other… I gave your… predisposition another thought.”

Finch raised his eyebrow.

“You might be able to surpass what you already are,” Q said calmly. “You said you were only talented in that one area, writing a code that no one else could ever have come up with, let alone be able to read. But you have a great many more talents. Your computer skills, the engineering part, are quite admirable.”

Finch watched him warily.

“As a fully functional technopath the danger of losing myself within even the smallest network was what kept me from taking steps, from learning and honing my abilities. I needed an anchor for that, someone who fit me, whom I could trust instinctively.”

“I don’t need an anchor.”

“No. You’re a cipher. But you could use someone to balance you in a different way, Mr. Finch. You already have someone who gives you a purpose, who lets you live, who dragged you back into the world, don’t you?”

The other man refused to answer, but Q could see the truth.

“I’m not a technopath, nor do I tend to lose myself in anything technological,” Finch finally said.

“You created something wonderful, Harold,” Q told him, voice as intense as his eyes. He had switched to his handler voice. Even, calm, very balanced and without a hint of stress. “You gave it everything, part of you. It might be self-aware. Or soon anyway. What I looked at wasn’t mechanical and run only by code lines. It might become sentient. You are the Admin. You know it is possible. You gave this everything and the result is The Machine. Think of what you could still do if you allowed yourself this trust; if you allowed yourself to connect… again.”

Finch swallowed hard, shocked and clearly terrified by what Q implied.

“Again?” he echoed weakly.

“A cipher is a variation of what a technopath can do,” Q explained calmly, readily. “You don’t need an anchor, just a connection. To program The Machine’s core you had to have someone you trusted, someone you, probably unconsciously, used as a connection. You never openly did so. And I would suspect he is gone. John isn’t gone. He is ready. You know it. I saw it. He’s a protector and he chose you, Harold. He won’t say no to your needs.”

“I can’t…”

“Like I said, sometimes decisions aren’t made by us. For me, the anchor was needed to survive with my mind intact. Bond is my sanity, my greatest strength. It was almost fate that I became his balance in return. It could have backfired, but it didn’t. Reese doesn’t need someone to balance him like Bond, but he needs a stability, a purpose. You are his purpose. You gave him his life back, Finch. The work you gave him was his reason to drag himself out of the hell he lived in. He has purpose. And he would be a great connector.”

Finch stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Let him decide,” Q added. “Don’t make the decision for him. You’re already working as a team. This will only cement that, nothing else. He needs you just as badly. And you know it. I’m sure you researched his preternatural side.”

Finch only nodded once.

“Then you know that, while they aren’t called cerberus any more, it’s what they are: guardians. Hellhound is so incredibly misleading.” Q shrugged. “Nothing hellish about him, except that he will never back down, won’t ever turn his back on you, and his loyalty can’t be swayed away once he has decided you are his to keep safe.”

He emptied the cup and took his bag.

“Think about it, Harold. You need each other. Take it from me, it’s not bad. It actually enriches your life. And his. Look at him. Just look at him closely and tell me he isn’t happy with what he is doing. The numbers, the people, they are important to John. But you, Harold Finch, are the most important part in his new life.” He smiled and inclined his head. “Thank you again for all your help. I wish you good luck for your… enterprise, Mr. Finch.”

Q walked out of the coffee shop and Bond fell in step with him.

“He was watching and listening,” the agent said conversationally.

“So were you.”

“You’re mine,” he growled softly.

Q glanced at him, hearing the fond note. He smiled a little. “And Finch is Reese’s. Period.”

Bond chuckled, giving him a look that spoke lengths. They walked two more blocks until Bond finally flagged down a cab that took them to their hotel. The suite was still theirs and they had almost twelve more hours until they had to be at the airport.

When the door closed behind them, Bond turned and Q looked into those intense eyes, fire and ice thrown together in their depths, and he had never felt this… content. Complete. At ease. So much just because of James Bond.

Calloused hands cupped his face and caressed his skin, then drew him into a kiss. It was soft, gentle, easing into Q like it was their first time, the caress of hands sliding over his sides, around his waist, pulling them closer together.

Never idle, the younger man let his own hands slip underneath the jacket, meeting heat and strength.

James lightly bit at his neck. “We have some time left. Room’s paid for.”

“We still need to pack.”

“I’d rather unpack.”

He looked into the mischievous, blue eyes and had to laugh. “You’ve had better lines, 007.”

“I also had worse, Q.”

“So very true.”

“But they always work.”

“Maybe I need to be the first to actually say no.”

Bond caught his mouth once more, this time with more intent, with more emotion, with more… him. Q had this sensation again, like the phoenix was spreading its wings, ready for flight, for the hunt, the chase.

He nipped at the preternatural’s lower lip, feeling his own pulse quicken.

“Let’s put the room to good use,” he murmured, slipping out of the embrace.

Bond let him, watching him with an expression that had Q want to roll onto his back and just submit.

He fought down that instinctive notion, refusing to be dominated. The phoenix was a primal creature and it would never stop, never just accept, it had to fight and Q would always fight back. It wasn’t in his own nature to be meek, submissive, weak.

And it was fun. It was… enervating. Looking at Bond, seeing the fire, aware that only he could touch it without burning himself. It wasn’t a power trip; it was simple appreciation of the facts. James Bond was a lethal killer, a ruggedly handsome man, a well-versed lover, and he was a very vital and important part of Q’s life.

He was the anchor.

And Bond enjoyed the challenge every time.

Q simply enjoyed the fight and the resulting, very intense aftermath.

Now he slipped out of his own jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, smiling at the clear sign of hunger and appreciation.

 

 

They made it to the bed on the second attempt, but it was a close call.

 

* * *

 

It was late. The library was dark and silent. Bear was sleeping on his doggy bed, snoring softly, and Finch was sorting the books.

It wasn’t necessary, but gave him something to do.

Bond and Q would be leaving tomorrow morning and matters would return to…

He stopped, book in hand.

No, nothing would return to normal.

Things had been upset and nothing would ever erase the revelations from his mind, nor from John’s.

“You’re up late,” a low, soft voice disturbed his thoughts.

He pushed an old edition of a medical history book into the shelf it belonged and stiffly turned his head.

“Good evening, Mr. Reese. I’m surprised to see you.”

“Don’t be.”

Finch picked up another book and studied the ancient cover. The Collected Works of One of the Greatest Surgeons of the Sixteenth Century. It was a very valuable edition.

“I heard what Q told you, Harold.”

Of course he had. Reese had been logged in and Finch hadn’t cut the connection.

The double entendre in his thoughts didn’t escape him.

Connection.

Connector.

He knew what Q had been playing at, though the young Brit couldn’t know about Nathan Ingram. Nathan had been a stabilizing influence who had kept a younger Harold Wren focused on his tasks. Finch had never given it much thought, but he had felt the loss with the death of his longest and best friend – a friend who hadn’t really known who Harold was.

Maybe he didn’t know himself any more either.

Reese rested a shoulder against the shelf, those alert eyes on Finch. He had John’s full attention.

“He said you might not have developed your full potential as a cipher.”

“He is wrong.”

Reese leaned closer. “He isn’t.”

Finch refused to look at him, too aware of the physical closeness. It was… distracting. He slid the old book into the appropriate slot on the shelf, then limped off to another cart with more books.

Reese followed.

“You never asked, Harold.”

He refused to be baited.

“You knew what I was.”

“I didn’t, Mr. Reese. It was never mentioned in any of your files and it never came up in our conversations.”

Reese smiled a little, still watching him. This singular attention was truly unnerving.

“You have known for a few days now.”

“It changes nothing.”

“It changes everything, Harold.”

And when had he come up so silently, so close? Finch froze when strong fingers that had killed others so easily curled gently around his wrist. He let Reese take the book and place it back on the cart.

“It changes everything,” the preternatural repeated.

He was mesmerized by the blue eyes, that intense expression.

“You gave me a chance, Harold. Give this a chance as well.”

“Despite what Q said, I don’t need an anchor, Mr. Reese,” he heard himself say.

“Not like Bond, but you need a partner.”

“I already have you as my partner.”

Reese’s smile was back, warmer, softer, more… private. “I know you never mix work and play, Harold,” he said in that low, hypnotic voice. “I know you never let anyone look past those shields into your private life. I know you know me better than anyone else ever has. I know you need me.”

“John…”

“I offer you my partnership,” he continued, fingers still holding Finch’s wrist lightly. “You know what I am and that I need a purpose. You gave me one that fills me, has captured me, my soul, and I’m willing to make it my last.”

Finch stared at him, aware what he was being offered. “You can’t...” he tried.

“I can. It’s my decision. I already do protect you, Harold. To make this permanent, to bind myself to you, feels normal. Natural.”

“I can’t have you do this,” he whispered in denial.

If a hellhound chose a partner, one for life, it was for life. For the rest of his natural life. Nothing would be able to break this. It was a promise, a bond of a special kind. History knew of such singular devotion, of hellhounds choosing one master and staying with him or her to the very end.

Finch swallowed.

“You can,” Reese only said easily. “You can if you want to. And I know you want to.”

His heart hammered in his chest.

“One final assignment,” the former CIA operative went on. “I’ve never felt it like this before, Harold. You chose me for a reason and I stayed for the same reason. You knew when we met that first time. In the hospital.”

Reese’s smile oncreased at Finch’s stunned expression.

“Yes, I know. I finally remembered that day. Your scent was there, heavily mixed with the smell of the hospital and nearly drowned by my grief and anger. But I remembered.”

How Reese had managed to crowd him against the book shelf was beyond Finch. His wrist was still held captive and he was mesmerized by the very… presence of his partner.

Reese leaned closer. “I trust you,” he whispered into his ear, lips brushing against his skin.

Finch felt something inside of him shatter and reform. He really didn’t need an anchor to work or he wouldn’t have been able to create The Machine. But he needed something else, a support he had never had in Nathan or anyone else.

“You might regret this,” he started a last attempt.

Reese chuckled, those dark blue eyes filled with something Finch found he was unable to comprehend. A ring of silver was forming, the hellhound pushing to the forefront. He found it fascinating.

“I haven’t regretted a single day of working with you.”

Neither had Finch.

And he was aware of the grandness of what was happening.

Reese leaned in again. “We are loners until we choose a partner,” he murmured in that soft voice. “I made my choice.”

So had Finch, but to bind a man like Reese to himself…

“I can’t let you do this, John,” he tried one last time.

“You can’t stop me either. I made my decision. My second chance. My final one. You.” He tilted his head a little, a smile teasing at his lips. “And when you’re ready to accept me as well, Harold, I’ll be there. Open your eyes. Learn to see.” He smiled enigmatically. “I finally did.”

And with that Reese pushed back and released his wrist. His smile stayed, almost impish for a second, then he turned and silently walked out of the library.

Harold remained behind, still leaning against the shelf, his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing harder than normal. He felt slight tremors race through him.

He didn’t need an anchor.

He was only a cipher and he didn’t need anyone to keep him from sliding into a code.

Q had claimed he could be more, could train his abilities to become better.

Finch closed his eyes.

Reese had offered him everything; he had already made his decision and Finch knew the former CIA operative would be by his side whatever happened. The hellhound’s loyalty was absolute. Now he had bound himself, too.

No one but Finch would be able to command him. No one but Finch would have his absolute trust and loyalty. It was… stunning. It was unbelievable.

And part of Finch wanted just that, had wanted it for a long time. Now that he knew what John Reese was, so much made sense.

He looked into the darkened corridor.

John trusted him.

Completely.

And… and Finch found that he trusted him in return. For the first time in so many years he found he trusted someone more than ever before.

Enough to start trusting this man with more than a few tidbits of his life. Maybe enough to open himself to John Reese like he hadn’t been able to, even to Nathan Ingram.

Finch closed his eyes and exhaled softly.

 

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

The flight home was eventless. Q had forcefully kept himself from logging into the plane’s network. James had wrapped strong fingers around his wrist in the end, pulling him away from temptation, and when the cabin had darkened and Q had fallen asleep, Bond had held the contact.

He didn’t sleep a lot himself.

Neither man felt inclined to head into MI6 after the plane had touched down. Q felt severe jetlag and Bond didn’t look like he had any ambitions either.

So the flat it was.

Q dumped his luggage and felt himself unwind completely the moment he was within the confines of his own place, his home, his private network. He sent off a quick message to M and Tanner, telling them that he and Bond were back but would take this day. He didn’t expect either of the two men to argue about it. They knew better.

A strong hand gently squeezed his neck.

Bond smiled knowingly.

Q raised an eyebrow.

It got him a kiss, then Bond walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink.

Q felt tired, the jet lag catching up to him a little, and he didn’t resist when a glass of scotch was pressed into his hands. He sipped it, feeling the warmth spread through him, and when Bond pulled him close, he just followed the gentle nudge.

The kiss was warm, tasting of scotch, their bodies flush against each other. Bond was taking all of Q’s weight, leaning against the table behind him, one arm looped around his waist.

Q closed his eyes, sighing softly.

“There’s a good way to fight jet lag,” the phoenix suggested, voice a rumble.

He chuckled.

Bond nosed his chin, then let his lips and teeth slide over the pale neck.

Q shivered.

A harder bite had him make a rather undignified noise. He leaned fully into the strong, hard-muscled form.

James smiled more.

He turned them, so that now Q was with his back against the desk, then just went to his knees. Q’s eyes widened and he quickly placed the tumbler next to Bond’s – and when had he put it there? – and then his pants were open and hands were brushing over their prize. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blond head, the intensely blue eyes meeting his. There was a wicked spark in those eyes and before Q could say something, Bond swallowed him.

“Dear god,” he managed in a breathless groan when teeth scraped over his hardening dick.

This wasn’t just teasing, this was down and dirty and hard and slightly rough.

And what he needed.

 

 

He looked at the peacefully sleeping man in bed with him. Dark hair a mess, more unruly than ever, the glasses no longer hiding and shielding his eyes, skin pale and soft looking. Q was wearing a t-shirt – Bond’s – but it wasn’t hiding the marks the preternatural had left on him.

The phoenix approved. It liked to mark its mate, liked to hear Q’s encouragement and lust.

His own lust surged, filled with need and rightness. This was his. This was Q.

The phoenix couldn’t love. It couldn’t…

It was a nightmarish creation, an abomination, a terror that frightened larger and more dangerous predators without them ever knowing why.

It couldn’t love… but it did.

A growl of irritation rose inside Bond’s throat.

Staring at the sleeping technopath, he felt his emotions whirl. He had thought he loved Vesper. James might even have loved her, but the phoenix hadn’t. The preternatural side hadn’t accepted her. It had never felt the connection it had created with Q.

Q was someone the phoenix needed to live, to survive each resurrection, to still be whole and not lose itself, consume every last shred of awareness and finally fade.

And Bond needed him.

The desire had been there; strongly. He had liked what he had seen, the body, the mind, the sense of rightness. And the desire had become more. It had surpassed the psychic link, had turned into something so strong his dark nature was unable to dominate it.

And Bond didn’t mind.

He didn’t care.

Because… because he wanted this man. He needed him, lusted after him, protected him.

Because he… the phoenix… they… loved.

It was a revelation that left him breathless, almost thunderstruck, and James closed his eyes as he tried to reign in his emotions.

Q moved sleepily, but he didn’t wake.

Bond opened his eyes and calmed himself. He curled closer to his partner, felt the warmth seep into him, his skin, his mind, his soul. He felt the phoenix stretch contentedly, purring like it was just a big cat, and he closed his eyes again.

This wasn’t what he had thought he felt for Vesper. This was more. This was a lot more intimate and intense. This was… Q.

He kissed the warm skin under his lips.

This was them.

 

* * *

 

Nothing had changed, really.

But everything was different anyway.

A new number had come up. They worked their ‘case’ and tried to discover who wanted to harm a twenty-nine year-old substitute teacher. Reese was his efficient self. Finch was always there, in his ear, sometimes venturing out into the real world and breaking a dozen laws in an hour.

In the end they saved a life.

And John was there, in the library, looking completely at ease and in total control.

Nothing had changed between them.

Finch knew it was a lie. A bold, bright lie that kept him up at night, had him run all kinds of searches on the net, and he had become quite an expert on hellhounds in the past few days.

Because he needed to understand and yet he failed to do so.

What had prompted John to make that offer? What had John be so sure of their relationship that he would willingly, knowingly, bind himself to the damaged soul that was Harold Finch?

If this failed, John would be completely at a loss, more broken than before, more alone, and probably unable to function normally for the rest of his life. A life, Finch was sure, the man would make sure to end.

It had him stare at the information on the screen, frozen in terror of this connection, this devotion, this loyalty.

But there was no stopping Reese.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder – just briefly, a second – then it slid down his spine, bypassing his injured neck.

Finch closed his eyes, only too aware of his own reaction to the intimate caress. And he wondered if it was his imagination that he seemed to feel a hint of claws. Reese had never shifted in front of him, but now he knew and the hellhound was free to be himself.

“The more you fight, the more convinced I am that I made the right choice, Harold,” Reese murmured, his voice touching something deep within him.

Finch was sure that it wasn’t anything like what existed between James Bond and Q. They had come together for a different reason and would always have a much deeper connection. This, though… this was coming from John – and Finch wanted it.

He turned his head as much as he was capable of. Reese moved, leaning against the table, making it so much easier, and also coming so impossibly closer.

“I believe I’m making the most sensible choice for both of us,” he replied stiffly.

“Sometimes a belief is wrong, Harold,” was the soft murmur.

The closeness was overpowering.

“You have nothing to lose,” Reese went on, “if you let yourself trust in this.”

He looked up, met the blue eyes, saw the offering and the promise in there.

“There is always loss,” Finch replied. “I could lose you, Mr. Reese. And you could lose everything, including your life.”

“Not much of a difference to the current partnership then.”

“You don’t understand…”

“I do. Much better than you think.”

And then he leaned down and placed a soft kiss over one eyebrow. When Finch looked up, startled and eyes wide, Reese caught his lips in a quick, almost playful nip. He drew back a little and when Finch didn’t seem to object, he repeated the gesture.

Longer this time.

And Finch found himself reacting.

“I want this, Harold,” Reese murmured, the silver shimmer in his eyes tell-tale. “And we can take this slow.” He smirked a little. “Glacial, if you want it.”

Finch smiled a little. “Slow, yes. I’m a bit… rusty. Glacial isn’t necessary, though.”

“Good to know.”

“I appreciate the offer.”

The next kiss ended with a breathless whine coming from Reese and Finch smiled. His hand was on the other man’s knee and the silver shimmer had intensified in the preternatural’s eyes. Slow would be good for them both. Finch’s body wasn’t as agile as his mind and the last time he had been intimate with someone was… a lifetime ago. Another life.

John smiled. That secret little smile that had Finch almost blush.

“Slow,” the hellhound only murmured, voice low and hypnotic.

Slow. And it might just work.

He didn’t need an anchor for his mind, but he needed… someone. To do the work he was unable to do, yes. To be the man in the field, yes. But also… differently. Not just for physical needs, which had been far and few ever since his ‘death’. Reese was so much more. Knowing that the hellhound was consciously life-binding himself to Harold Finch had the other man shiver inside.

This was so, so much more. For both of them.

 

* * *

 

Q had looked at the facts, had turned events over and over in his head, had read medical files, and he had gone over all of Bond’s past missions.

With a fine-toothed comb.

Now he was more than a little rattled. He was torn between scientific fascination and personal fear.

“Q.”

The soft voice didn’t really startle him. Q had heard the almost noiseless steps, aware that Bond was approaching. His partner hadn’t tried to startle him, to scare him.

“007.” He turned his head and gave the phoenix a little smile.

“Tell me,” the agent only said as he sunk gracefully onto the couch that Q had chosen as his work place.

The quartermaster was silent, looking at the screen with the split screen, all windows showing either mission files, medical reports or evaluations of James Bond.

“You resurrected within four hours,” he said, voice even.

Bond raised an eyebrow.

“Your throat was torn out. You lost three quarters of your blood. One lung punctured, two ribs fractured. You had several deep claw wounds; deep enough to go to the bone. Still you resurrected within a short amount of time.”

Q looked at his agent, trying to maintain his professional voice, his professional distance, his very professional expression. Bond didn’t really twitch at the list of injuries.

“You came to life and you started to heal. The doctor only closed the wounds and set up transfusions and IV lines for nutrients. It took you two days to be mobile, 007. A new record. Even for you.”

Bond shrugged casually. “Good care.”

“Hardly. I have gone through all your past missions, went over every major injury and every single occasion you most likely died, though that never made it into official reports.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I have M’s more private notes. She knew when that occurred.”

“She always was a nosey busybody.”

“You never recovered this quickly before. Never. It took you weeks to heal from the shots in Istanbul.”

Bond grimaced a little.

“It’s been twelve days since you were mauled by a werewolf, James,” Q said softly. “And you have healed every single wound. There are only scars that are fading away.” He ran a slightly shaky hand through his hair. “You… changed. Evolved, maybe.”

When he looked up, Bond was very close. He had moved without Q actually noticing.

“Why did I evolve, Q?” the Double-Oh asked, voice low and rough and touching something that echoed deep within Q’s soul.

“I’m not sure. I only have theories…”

“You have more.”

He shook his head. The blue eyes were intense, drawing him in.

“Q.”

He closed his eyes, felt a hand touch his cheek, calloused fingers caressing his skin.

“James.”

“Tell me what you think. What changed?”

“Everything. We… bonded. The phoenix accepted me as your balance.”

It got him a soft chuckle. “You gave me what I never had, Q. Freedom. You freed everything; you gave the phoenix its wings.”

Q looked at him, slight tremors racing through him. This was monumental. This was nothing he had ever read about, though to be truthful, there was so little about the preternatural called phoenix that anything could happen.

“You stopped my decline. You gave me back everything. You gave me back my life. I’ve never felt more alive, Q. Because of you.” His thumb caressed one temple. “I know that being your anchor sounds like a much bigger deal. It isn’t.”

“The phoenix is evolving,” Q whispered.

“Yes. I can feel it. Like I said, I’ve never felt more alive than now. It’s like a second chance. Maybe this healing ability, the sped-up recovery rate, is what a phoenix should be capable of. I never was because I didn’t have you.”

Q was silent.

“It changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” the quartermaster argued.

Bond tilted his head a little, his lips curling into that tiny smile. “I’m not going to throw myself into any more danger than before,” he murmured.

Q gave a little laugh. “Liar.”

“It doesn’t make me invincible nor immortal. I know my limits. Death is something I have come to accept as part of my job.”

He reached out and pulled Bond close, catching his lips in a kiss. “You are a Double-Oh agent, 007. You are a field agent. Injury and death is part and parcel of what you are. Just… don’t rely on resurrection too often.”

“I never do.” Bond kissed him back, pushing him into the couch and settling lithely over the slender man. “I know I have limits.”

Q shot him a doubtful look. Bond grinned and kissed him again. It turned into a very heavy make-out session and Q groaned with the rising arousal.

The phoenix’s expression was predatory and hungry.

“You saved me, Q. This… this is just something you gave wings. It’s my preternatural side and it’s no longer suppressed or tied down.”

No, it wasn’t. The phoenix, that vicious nightmare, that primal beast, was completely free. Control was fickle after a resurrection, but otherwise nothing had changed.

Except for a few little things. Like faster healing. Like resurrecting so much faster. Like feeling Q. Like Q sensing Bond’s death for that one moment.

Despite the hunger and need, the kiss was soft, gentle, loving, and expressing Bond’s emotions better than words.

“This is a partnership, Q,” he murmured against the reddened lips. “Give and take. You have given me everything. Control of what I am.”

“Like you gave me control of what I am,” Q replied.

They looked at each other and Bond’s smile was soft and private. Q traced the ruggedly handsome face. A face with a lot less lines than when they first met. A face that looked younger, calmer, reflected how settled James Bond had become. It was a face of a man younger than his years, fitter than ever before, completely in tune with his preternatural side.

His partner. His phoenix.

Bond curled around him, half his weight on Q, like an enormous, heavy, living blanket. His face was buried against Q’s neck. And Q’s arms were around him.

He would keep a very close eye on these developments, on what was happening to Bond, to himself, to their connection. Q was happy for James; the phoenix was slowly reaching its full potential. It calmed him, in a way. It was elating.

No files would be kept on any server anyone could ever get to. All that information was beyond top secret or eyes-only.

Q closed his eyes, listening to the soft breathing of his partner, feeling the strength of the muscular body, hard and unyielding and yet so soft, curled around him. He buried a hand in the short, blond hair, blunt nails scratching mindlessly.

James gave a grunt of pleasure.

He smiled and let the relaxed atmosphere ease his mind.

Whatever this was, whatever was happening, they would go through it together.

Ups and downs and all.


End file.
